


Monday: That's What Really Happened

by YoMamaofDragons



Series: We All Gotta Grow Up Sometime [3]
Category: The Breakfast Club (1985)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, not complete
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:36:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 122,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26257264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoMamaofDragons/pseuds/YoMamaofDragons
Summary: The question we all want answered: what the (bleep) happened on Monday? Technically a prequel to We All Gotta Grow Up Sometime (this is NOT COMPLETE YET, idk why it says otherwise and I can't seem to fix it)
Relationships: Andrew Clark/Allison Reynolds, John Bender/Claire Standish
Series: We All Gotta Grow Up Sometime [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1889986
Comments: 112
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have begun the promised prequel! Title thanks to reviewer Dru! I was gonna wait a bit longer to start posting but...Spangly Bob, man. He does as he pleases xD Since this is a prequel to We All Gotta Grow Up Sometime all our favorite Hughes-ian characters will at least make a cameo, if not featured directly. I'll also be shouting out other 80s movies. You can probably read this without having read the first one. Obvs, this is just the prologue. Other chapters will be longer.
> 
> Content Warning: While short, since this is the prologue, the last part is Brian's, which means there is some suicidal ideation

Prologue:

Thursday-Friday, March 22-23, 1984

Allison Reynolds sat waiting in the lobby of the administration office for her weekly Thursday appointment with Dr. Richard Hashimoto, the school guidance counselor. The only frigging one they had on staff, which was ridiculous. She knew for a fact that New Trier had at least three! Three! ‘Shermer—really giving so many fucks about their students’ mental health. So many!’ This meant that she had to wait here like a sitting duck while that administrative assistant, Ms. Abernathy, glared at her behind her cat’s eye glasses from her desk in the corner of the room that forever stunk of vomit and Lysol. Weird, considering that the nurse’s office was on another floor entirely. 

Richard Hashimoto. ‘Damn, there are so many Richards here.’

It was true. The vice principal was Richard Vernon, the human version of snake oil and a little man who was constantly trying to claw his way to the top and, like Sisyphus before him, sliding down that mountain, cursing the Ed Rooney-sized boulder all the while. Then, of course, there was her beloved guidance counselor, the dull if harmless Richard Hashimoto; Allison had learned eons ago that in order to appease Hashpipe, one simply had to agree with everything he said. Other than Vernon and Hash, there was Richard Kravitz, the Shop teacher, who taught in the classroom beside her Painting With Acrylics class. Richard Moss, one of the gym teachers—dude looked like he couldn’t lift a belt buckle, let alone a fifty pound weight. And Richard Momoa, the cool teacher; she thought he taught English.

That was a lot of Dick. 

In the uncomfortable nylon chair, Allison giggled, and Ms. Abernathy narrowed her eyes. Ally immediately shut up and looked straight ahead, hands folded in the folds of her billowing black skirts. She couldn’t help it if she was particularly prescient, observant. As an outsider—to put it mildly, others would call her a Basketcase—she didn’t have much else to do other than people-watch. And watch the people she did. Allison knew quite well, for instance, that Ms. Abernathy over there was in the midst of a torrid affair with the very married Mr. Ryan, another P.E. teacher. 

As for her fellow classmates, she was privy to these tidbits—Farmer Ted, aka the Geek, and Caroline Mulford, one of the most popular girls in school, were secretly dating. Hardy Jenns, that big football jock, had a thing for Amanda Jones, girl from the other side of the tracks (gasp!). Heartthrob Jake Ryan was head-over-heels for sophomore, Samantha Baker. Stef McKee, richie shithead, kept asking out Claire Standish, richie-in-arms, and it wasn’t working out for him. 

None of this mattered to Allison Reynolds. But it was fun collecting information, anyway. Passed the time when she wasn’t sketching.

“Allison M. Reynolds, Dr. Hashimoto will see you now.”

And when she wasn’t faking “All is good! I’m not crazy, honest!” with Hashpipe. 

**  
Andrew Clark hated gym class.

It probably should’ve been his most favoritest class on his schedule, right? One would figure, him being Andrew Thomas Clark, world-class wrestler. Or, at least, Shermer-class wrestler. Chicago-class wrestler? Whatever. He was good, and he knew it. He’d won awards and shit. Trophies. His old man had purchased the display case to prove it. And made sure to plunk it down smack ass in the middle of the living room so that every single visitor they had at the house could see it. Or even idle passersby when the main door was open; they could peek through the storm door and, yup, there it was. All of Andy’s athletic achievements, immortalized in that display case in golden statuettes and colorful ribbons and black and white photographs. 

He was so *tired*. He loved wrestling, he really did. The strength, balance, and endurance the sport required. The echo of the mat as your opponent slapped down upon it. The rush of adrenaline when you know you’ve got him. The fight. The energy. Man, it was a trip. That was why he’d gone out for the team in the first place. As a kid, he’d loved watching wrestling matches—first more localized stuff on wavy broadcast channels, then the WWF and WCW. Wrestlers such as Rowdy Roddy Piper, Andre the Giant, the Iron Sheik, Macho Man Randy Savage, and of course Hulk Hogan. But, as with everything, his old man had zapped the fun right out of it all.

Greg, Andy’s older brother, had warned him. In high school, Greg went out for the basketball team, and Dad had run him into the ground, ultimately forcing him to quit, as he saw no other option to get the man off his back. Andy didn’t listen, eager to join the baseball team, and then the wrestling team. 

Now, in the locker room, as he was taping up his knee with an ACE bandage, he *really* wished that his knee would give out, and the old man could forget all about him. Tim was on Andy like a ton of bricks to win that scholarship, any scholarship. And while Andy, yes, would *like* to win one, the pressure his old man was putting on him was making him stumble. Shit, he’d hurt his knee in a royal rumble with a kid from New Trier who’d crushed his leg in a vice. Nice move, Andy had to appreciate it. His knee did not, however. 

But, truly, Andy hated gym class. It wasn’t very *athletic*. Mostly, they did a few stretches, ran around the gymnasium a bit, maybe climbed up the rope or played dodgeball. It was all quite lackadaisical, and, clearly, the P.E. teachers just hoped to put their time in and get their paychecks at the end of the week. The only part of the whole shebang Andy at all revered was the presidential challenge. The week-long test of athleticism—pull-ups and sit-ups, stepping, jump-rope, weights, and, at the end, running the mile along the track outside around the football field. The students with the best times received awards in the form of pizza. Kind of counterproductive but…

He never received pizza rewards at home. If his old man was satisfied, after *hours* of nonstop working out—running and jumping and lifting until he puked—then maybe Andy could get an extra smoothie before bed. Maybe. 

‘God, I fucking hate him.’ 

As he was wounding the ACE bandage around his knee, foot perched on the wooden bench, he observed Larry Lester changing into his gym uniform. Gray Shermer High t-shirt. Blue cotton shorts. White Adidas that had obviously barely seen much action. He was familiar with Larry Lester, *the* Larry Lesters of the world. He—they—was skinny, weak. Hair frigging everywhere, like a young Robin Williams. 

All of a sudden, Andy could hear the echo of his old man in his head, screaming, taunting him. ‘You wanna be a nobody, Andrew?! See, I thought you wanted to be a winner! We don’t have losers in this family! Look at that wimp, just look at ‘im! He’s a bum. A waste of oxygen. He’s a *loser*, Andrew. And what do we to do losers, hmm? Make me proud, son.’

That was when Andy jumped. And pounded. And reopened the medical tape he used underneath the ACE bandage. All to the approving hoots and hollers of his “friends” and Larry Lester’s whimpering and begging.

Until Coach Mays blew his whistle. “Andrew Clark! To the principal’s office! *Now*, young man!”

**  
For the first time, like, well, *ever*, Claire Standish did not want to go shopping. 

For this shopping trip required her to skip class, and she hated skipping class. She wasn’t good at it; the few times she’d tried, she got caught and had to hurry an excuse about going to the bathroom or heading off to the library. But her friends were insistent. 

“You, like, need some retail therapy, Claire,” Benny Hanson was saying over her bento box at their usual table in the crowded cafeteria, the one smack dab in the middle where everyone could see them and wish they could garner a seat at that table, too. “Good lord, it was Eric Fielding!”

On either side of Benny, the Luder twins, Stacy and Tracy, nodded their heads in sync, boot-lickers as always. “Good lord!”

Eric Fielding was Claire’s latest break-up. She’d only dated the guy for a few weeks, and for her father’s benefit. He was…a garbage bag in human form, was Eric Fielding. But, to Benny and the other girls, he was a god. All because he’d done some print-ad work recently. Word was, he had a big tube sock ad coming out. 

Impressive! Not. 

“Can’t we wait until after class?” Claire entreated, popping a piece of sushi in her mouth. California roll. She was still getting used to the sushi craze. “It’s Friday!” 

To her right, Amanda Jones flicked her red-blonde hair and smirked, shaking her shoulders. “Where’s the fun in that? I say we go for it!”

Amanda was from, eh, not their neighborhood. But Hardy Jenns, the star quarterback on the Shermer High football team, had taken a liking to her and thus, suddenly, she was in the club. She was pretty enough, especially after Benny et. al. got through with her. Added some highlights. Taught her how to contour her face so that her cheekbones were highlighted and the best angle for taking pictures. It truly did only take one person. Amanda was reveling in her newfound popularity, as anyone would be. People could spend their whole high school careers trying to get into the club and never make it. ‘Wannabes’, Claire thought, a tad disingenuously. 

“I’m in,” added Megan Hicks, the gorgeous brunette with the voice like a 40s film noir ingénue. She went through guys like Kleenex. Not one stuck it out longer than a month. “I can use a little delinquency in my life.” 

Benny clapped her pink-tipped hands. “Yay! Come on, Claire, what do you say?”

The Luder twins leaned over the table. “Yeah, Claire, what do you say?”

Claire sighed, once more succumbing to peer pressure. “Fine. But if we get caught, I’m blaming you.”

Benny clapped her hands again. “Oh, goody! We’ll meet in the lobby when the bell rings for sixth, then sneak out. ‘Kay?”

They all nodded. No one contradicted Benny Hanson. 

After lunch, Claire went to fifth period like normal. Sat through Advanced Placement European History like normal. Completed her oral presentation on Katherine of Aragon like normal. The bell rang. Warily, Claire grabbed her things and started down the hall with everyone else. The girls were all gathered in the lobby. It was way too easy to sneak out amid the hubbub of switching periods. 

They went to the Shermer Hills Mall and shopped ‘til they dropped. Claire bought a ton of new cosmetics and this really cute daisy print dress. Then, they hit the local café for a coffee and went home. Claire couldn’t believe how easy it all was…

…until her parents received The Call. 

“We believe your daughter skipped periods six through eight on Friday, March 23rd. Punishment is Saturday detention tomorrow at 7:40 AM.” 

Fuck.  
**  
John Bender was high.

No surprise there, “high as a kite” was his default mode these days. Helped him deal with, like, stuff, man. His old man. And the pain said old man inflicted upon him. 

His ma, too. 

The difference today was, instead of the usual back alley or the bleachers on the football field or behind a McDonald’s hoping to get a free McChicken or two from the pretty girl who worked there; she kept giving him the eye, he knew she was—what was he talkin’ about? Oh, right. Today, he was smokin’ a joint with his buddies down in the Art Wing. Right in the hallway.

Technically, this place was the D-Wing but no one called it that. It was the damn Art Wing ‘cause….’cause *head scratch* all the art classes took place down ‘ere. Including his Shop class. And, and his buddy, Ty’s, Auto Mechanics class, too; there was a garage at the end of the corridor. This was where all the “weirdos” hung out. Like that freak girl in that big ass coat he always saw ambling into that acrylics class. The one next to his Shop room. Won’t see any preppie richie assholes down here, no siree bob! The Art Wing was the only cool place in Shermer High, other than the bleachers and that barely counted. Here, Mr. Kravitz, his Shop teacher, let them do whatever the fuck they wanted. Smoke dope and drink. As long as they weren’t doing anything heavy, like coke or shooting up heroin and shit. That wasn’t Bender’s style. He saw firsthand what hard drugs could do to a person every day, and his ma was only stuck on pills. Fuck knew what would happen if he introduced heroin or speed into her life. Hell no. 

Seven months. Seven. Fucking. Months. He was so sure that Laura Bender had finally, finally given all that shit up. But, last week, the old man had to go off on her like a mad dog, and she relapsed all over again. 

So. John Bender was going to get drunk. And high. Higher still. He was going to do whatever the fuck he wanted. Why not? The consequences didn’t matter. Nothing in life fucking mattered. 

John knocked back a finger of whiskey from the bottle he’d snatched from the fridge in the garage. He’d pay for the crime later; for now, he didn’t give a shit. 

“Hey—hey, Bender,” his friend, Gavin Treadmore, Gav to anyone who mattered, nudged him where they sat slouched against the whitewashed wall. Gav’s pointy as hell Mohawk, today colored aggressively purple, kept scratching John’s cheek. “Pull that fire alarm, man.”

With a bit of effort, John crooked his head and tried to focus weed-induced somnolent vision on the red box, on which was a handle that read FIRE. 

Beside Gav, Ty, John’s best buddy, chuckled, absorbed in a cloud of dope all his own. “Bet he won’t do it.”

“Bet he will. Five bucks.”

“Make it ten and you’re on, Treadmore.” 

“Hey!” exclaimed Ashford Langley III, a certified richie straight out of Richieville who couldn’t stand his fellow peers of wealth—or his bitch of a ma—and hung out with Bender et. al. instead. He went by Ash, though this didn’t stop the guys from annoying the hell out of him. “I want in, too. Ten bucks.” Ash reached into the pocket of his jeans and produced a tenner, which he slapped into Gav’s palm.

“Count me in, too, dudes,” added Jones, producing his own ten-dollar bill. Head-shaven and pierced, Jones’ real name was Elias, but that was lame and biblical and shit. They all called him by his surname.

John rose on unsteady legs. “All right, all right, you dipshits. You think I won’t do it? It’s just a fucking fire alarm.” 

Resolutely, deliberately, John stalked across the hallway, boots tapping hard against the cheap linoleum—damn, this hallway really sucked; it needed, like, a renovation or whatever—and rested his hand on the lever. 

“Pull it, you pussy!” Ash crowed. 

“Told ya he ain’t gonna do shit,” Ty laughed. 

“Pull it!” Jones slurred/shouted, hand resting on the door behind him. It led out into an area of the courtyard that badly needed manicuring. 

John’s buddies took up a cheer of “Pull it, pull it!” and so he did. 

“Oh, shit!” Ty cried, and John watched as his friends scrambled out that same door.

He was just about to follow them, intending on innocently falling in line, just another fire drill, nothing to see here, when a hand came clamping down on his shoulder. John froze, then slowly turned around…and met the narrowed eyes of his greatest adversary. 

“Dick!”

“My office. Now. Now, Mr. Bender! And why does this hallway smell like *pot*?!”

“I don’t know, sir,” John said whilst he picked up his backpack and indolently shouldered it. “I don’t smell anything. Perhaps you have a brain tumor? You should check with a neurologist just in case.” 

“My. Office. Now.”

Oh, this was just great.

**  
Brian Ralph Johnson was having the worst week of his life.

First, after some needling from his friends (particularly Farmer Ted and his inexplicable girlfriend, Caroline Mulford), he went and asked out his very longtime crush, Amanda Jones, forgetting, in his love coma, that she was “claimed” by Hardy Jenns, and she just responded with an “Ohhh!” like she was pitying him. ‘The poor lamb. Thinks he has a chance in hell, that’s adorable.’ To make matters worse, he’d done the asking in front of their entire gym class. Then, later, Hardy Jenns himself threatened to turn him inside out. 

As if being publicly humiliated wasn’t enough, on Tuesday, he forgot he had an appointment with the orthodontist and had to reschedule, and he really needed some new bands for his braces. On Wednesday, he nearly lost Mary at the department store, and his mom went crazy on him. Then, on Thursday, when he failed to complete his Shop assignment, an elective he’d opted to take solely because he’d assumed it’d be an easy-peasy way to maintain his GPA, there were so many idiots who took Shop, and if they could do it, he surely could do it, he received an F. A big, fat F—his first ever. Brian Johnson, the straight-A student, got an F in Shop for bombing his stupid ceramic elephant lamp project. His parents would go bananas, even the comparably pacified Ralph Johnson. He and Mercedes lived to brag about Brian’s grades and how he was going to get into any college of his choice and make a buttload of money and buy them a house in Malibu and then they could retire early and travel the world. 

They wouldn’t tolerate an F. Heck, they wouldn’t tolerate anything lower than an A. Even if he aced the rest of the class, his grade would still come out to a B; everything was ruined, everything. 

As Mr. Kravitz handed Brian his big, fat F with a sympathetic look on his face, he could only see the ire, the pure hatred on his mother’s and the disappointment on his father’s. 

On Friday, Brian Johnson snuck into the garage in the wee hours of the morning and fished Ralph’s old orange flare gun out of the small, canvassed fishing boat he kept there, the one they hadn’t taken out on Lake Loomis in years and whose paint was beginning to flake. It was the only weapon the Johnsons had; Ralph didn’t believe in guns.

When he got to school, he stashed it in his locker, way back on the top shelf so no one would find it, intending on using it at some point during the day. It wasn’t a gun gun, but it had to cause some damage, right? 

In his melancholy, Brian could not conceive of any other way out but this. He kept seeing flashes of his angry, heartbroken mother and closed-up, disillusioned father. All he was to them…were his grades. He embodied his grades. He was Brian Johnson, their A-student. Now, he was Brian Johnson, their failure. Their disappointment. 

Whilst he haunted the day like a ghost, attending his classes but, for the first time, barely paying any attention to anything, during fifth hour just after lunch, Vice Principal Vernon came to retrieve him, his mien flabbergasted, outraged, disbelieving. Brian followed him without word down the hall, around a corner. They were headed to his locker…which was half ajar and mangled, his books scattered on the floor. 

Brian’s pulse quickened. Mr. Ryan, one of the P.E. teachers, pulled out that very same orange flare gun. The teacher’s lips twisted in a grimace. 

Carl the janitor was sweeping up a mess of scattered, crinkled papers sprinkled across the linoleum, shaking his head. 

Vice Principal Vernon crossed his arms over his chest. “Mr. Johnson. Please follow me to my office. Now.”

Brian could do nothing, nothing at all, but sigh and nod.  
**


	2. Chapter 1: Ordinary People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1!

Thursday, March 22, 1984:

“And what does this one look like to you?”

“…like a rhino doing the hula?” 

A sigh. “Miss Reynolds—“ 

Allison softly snickered beneath her breath. Sometimes, she couldn’t help but screw with Hashpipe a bit. The man never got unruffled, his expression consistently blah, and there was nothing funnier to her. Hashpipe was worse than Mr. Stein, the Economics teacher. At least he had his moments of hilarity, even if they were unintentional. 

Folding her hands atop the desk, Allison took another look at the menagerie of inkblots. Every appointment she had with Hashpipe was the same—first, they shot the shit about her family, went over why Lenore and Joseph were horrendous, why Eleanor was her sole ally in the bunch, he showed her a weird, outdated instructional video, like some sort of how-to on mental health, and then, for the last half hour, went over the inkblots. Allison made it a game to intent the craziest, most bizarre “visions” she glimpsed within the shapeless splotches; it was the only way she could get through these appointments unscathed and with her sanity—mostly—in check. 

The point of Ally’s tongue popped out of her mouth as she studied the picture, then she leaned back in the gray plastic chair and shrugged. “I guess it kinda looks like…a car? Maybe a station wagon. Like the one the Griswolds drive to Wally World in ‘Vacation.’” 

Hashpipe turned the picture toward himself to discern whether she was fucking with him again, nodded in apparent satisfaction, and lowered the cardboard, expressionless as ever. “It is my belief that the station wagon and the equation with family vacation represents your longing for your *own* sense of family, Miss Reynolds.”

“Um, okay.” The last thing Ally could ever see herself doing was “longing” for Lenore, but sure, whatever floats your boat, Hashy. 

The bell rang. Allison gathered up her belongings—black messenger knapsack, deep black cross-body bag, textbooks, and her enormous black coat—and ambled for the door. Hashpipe didn’t glance up from the sheaf of papers he was rearranging. “Next Thursday, twelve noon, Miss Reynolds.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be here.” Not like she had anywhere else to be. Lunch, maybe. 

In the busy hallway of B-Wing, just outside the cafeteria, Allison crouched down to open her locker, intending on switching her Geometry text for her Spanish one…when she suddenly, out of frigging nowhere, felt dampness dripping on the top of her head. Hastily brushing her bangs out of her eyes, Allison jumped and turned around, balancing on the toes of her feet, and gazed up, up, up into Benny Hanson’s smirking face. 

As always, the bitch was flanked by her minions—Stacy and Tracy Luder, Amanda Jones, Megan Hicks, Sloane Peterson, and Claire Standish. Sloane was biting her lower lip uncertainly. Claire stood behind them all, clutching her books to her chest. Stacy and Tracy were grinning and popping gum. 

Benny was holding a bottle of Evian upside-down over Allison’s head. “Look, girls! The first time she’s washed her hair in months.” 

Stacy and Tracy laughed obnoxiously, the lapdogs they were. Claire Standish, however, merely tittered in her light-colored riding boots. 

Allison rolled her eyes. “That the best you can do? You’re losing your touch, Benny. I mean, *Benjamina*.”

Benny scowled. She loathed her first name, and the fact that it was just an off-shoot of her narcissist father’s. Ally quite knew this. “She talks! Oh, it’s a miracle! Someone alert the media.”

Stacy. “I’ll call the local news station!”

Tracy. “I’ve got the radio!”

Benny, that bitch, upturned the Evian bottle over Allison’s head one more time, and Ally jumped to a standing position and glowered. “Cut it out! What are you, five?”

The blonde harridan was snickering. “Look, girls. It’s like Chinese water torture. Only—“ And here, she stepped forward, nearly nose to nose with Allison. “—we don’t want anything from you, freak. You’re *nothing*. You’re *no one*. Just a weirdo in a coat ten sizes too big for her.” \

Allison could do nothing but glare at Benny’s back, draped in a purple cashmere sweater, with all the fire of a thousand suns. Claire Standish gazed back at her once over her shoulder, her lips flat, her expression unmoving, before turning front-face and rounding a corner. 

Ally pushed herself back against the bank of lockers. And tried very hard not to cry angry tears.

**  
“You did *what*?”

Steve “Stubbie” Marshall was staring at Andy, plainly agog, his jaw nearly on the floor, eyes as wide as saucers. In hindsight, Andy couldn’t really blame him. In general, he wasn’t the “piss on the unpopular” type; Andy was no Benny Hanson. Or some (most) of the other Sports he inexplicably hung around with. But Andy had always been more…down to Earth? Relaxed? He didn’t expel energy mocking the “disadvantaged”. Perhaps because he hadn’t grown up with a garage-full of imported sports cars or a humongous house north of Jersey Street or an Olympic-sized in-ground pool. He just didn’t see the point, for one. And for another, he’d always considered being a bully kind of asshole. 

It was a sentiment he and Stubbie shared. 

So, his friend was pretty damn shocked to learn that he, Andy Clark, had just been bestowed a Saturday detention by their vice principal—plus a tired, unnecessary lecture (“We don’t tape butts! What happened to just…stealing someone’s underpants like we used to do back in my day?”)—for, eh, taping Larry Lester’s buns together with the remains of his medical tape. 

He’d cringed in empathy when Coach Mays and Nurse Heckerling very carefully ripped the bandages off poor Larry, who’d screamed in agony the whole time. Part of his punishment, being made to watch. And, boy, was it a punishment! Via observation, Andy had discovered just how much damage he’d done to the kid. He’d figured some hair would come off, what with Larry in perpetual lycanthropic wolf-boy change, but not *that* much! And then there was the skin. *Skin*! He’d left Larry’s butt looking all stripy and red and swollen… 

Andy hadn’t eaten lunch today because that image kept haunting him. Whenever he’d tried to take a bite of his (one of three) sandwich, he would see those strips of tape slowly being pulled from the shrieking and crying Larry Lester. 

Jesus. What had he *done*?! 

And, the worst part was—for him, anyway, certainly not for poor Larry—he’d done this despicable deed for his old man. He’d done it with him in mind. With his disembodied voice urging him, taunting him that he was a pussy. Andy had wanted his own father to think that he was “cool”. 

He’d never felt lower. It was no less than he deserved. 

He also had never hated his “friends” so much. Laughing and cheering him on as he tortured that kid. Not a single one tried to stop him. 

Now, in one of the few classes he shared with Stubbie—a cinema course; the jocks always got the easiest classes—in the back of the room whilst their teacher, Mrs. Van der Veer, orated a lecture on…he thought it was the Golden Age of Hollywood era, Andy, in the desk beside Stubbie’s, whispered exactly what he’d done to Larry Lester during second period Gym and the resulting Saturday detention. 

Andy shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. “I don’t know what happened, man. I just… I kept hearing my old man’s voice in my head and I…” 

“…and you wanted to impress him, right?” Stubbie crossed his arms over his Shermer High baseball sweatshirt. He did not look pleased. On the contrary, his friend appeared…disappointed in him.  
Steve “Stubbie” Marshall was not about bullying to inflate his own ego and never had been. Stubbie was all into the party life—throwing fantastic raves, hootenannies, shindigs, and what have you that Andy’s classmates (hell, even some teachers, like the chilled out Mr. Momoa or the perpetually stoned Mr. Kravitz or Nurse Heckerling, who, much to Andy’s delighted surprise, could *really* hold her liquor for a middle-aged lady); rock-climbing and hanging ten down in Hawaii on vacation; cliff-diving straight into the lake in the quarry near Andy’s house. Just this week, he went drag racing in his new Corvette…and won. 

*That* was how the guy fed his self-confidence, via leaning into his reputation as a party animal. Until, well, *now*, today, Andy had done the same thing. Minus the cliff-diving and ten-hanging.  
Now in seventh period, four hours removed from his misdeed, Andy felt like utter cow shit. 

‘I can’t believe I let him get to me.’ 

The old man, not Stubbie. What had happened wasn’t *Larry’s* fault and certainly had nothing whatsoever to do with his friend. Larry had just been sitting there, minding his own business while he changed for P.E. The kid was merely…*convenient*. Tim fucking Clark had gotten into his head, into his very blood, and, like took over. What he’d done to Larry…it was akin to an out of body experience. Andy had completely been on autopilot. 

Not that he was trying to deflect blame. It was *his* hands who’d grabbed Lester and stuck all that tape on his hairy ass. It was *his* face who’d stared down at the kid with the utmost concentration, as if he was performing a necessary, dangerous task like defusing a bomb or something.

It was *his* friends who’d hooted and hollered and cheered him on whilst Lester scrambled on the floor, begging and pleading and sobbing. 

“Look at the little wimp!” Mark Davis, his teammate, had crowed while he leaned over Andy’s shoulder. “His arms are like noodles. Fucking hairy ass noodles!”

“Yeah,” agreed Keith McDonald, defense on the hockey team. “His legs, too. Look like they can barely support ‘is bodyweight.”

“Yer doin’ him a favor, Andy,” laughed Anthony Hewlitt, slapping his bicep and grinning. “Kid needs to know who’s who and what’s what ‘round here.”

In the present, at his desk, Andy’s blue eyes narrowed. He’d never really questioned his friends’ shitty behavior before, lo how many times they’d exhibited it. He was ashamed that *this* was what it took for the blinders to come off. 

Andy raked a shaking hand through his blond hair and covered his face with both palms. 

He needed to do something. Apologize. But…how did one even go *about* making up for this shit? He’d likely permanently scarred Lester, at least mentally. Possibly physically, too.  
If Larry’s parents sued him, he’d claim full culpability. 

As though reading his mind, Stubbie pursed his lips and said, “You gotta apologize to Lester, bro. I mean, *really* apologize. Otherwise, you’re just an asshole like the rest of ‘em.”

Andy nodded. He did not want to be an asshole like the rest of ‘em. “I’ll talk to him in Gym class tomorrow. Only one I have with him.”

Stubbie agreed, apparently satisfied. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Van der Veer, who, it could not be noticed, had pretty big tits and she rarely wore a bra, making this class quite popular with the guys, interrupted her own lecture and folded her hands on her hips. “Mr. Clark, Mr. Marshall. Would you like to share your conversation with the class?”

Stubbie shrunk in his seat. “No, Mrs. Van der Veer.”

Andy shook his head. 

“Then, please, pay attention. We were discussing ‘Citizen Kane’. I trust you both did your homework and watched the film?”

“Homework” in this course was renting movies from the local video store. Andy was not complaining. 

“Yes, Mrs. Van der Veer,” he and Stubbie chorused at once. 

Mrs. Van der Veer tapped her very high heel and compressed her very red lips. ‘Man, her husband is one lucky son of a bitch.’ “Then, perhaps one of you can tell me what, exactly, Rosebud is?”  
Stubbie looked like a deer caught in the headlights; it was damn near comical. Andy, who’d actually watched the film, simply leaned back in his seat. “A sled. Kane’s old wooden childhood sled, to be specific.” Kinda lame if you asked him. If *he* lay dying, the last thing on his mind would be a fucking children’s toy. And, on the off, off, off chance it was, he’d be pining for his Hulk Hogan action figure, not a sled. 

Mrs. Van der Veer narrowed her eyes. Ha! She’d been *so* sure she’d caught them. And teachers hated being wrong. “Very good, Mr. Clark. Now.” Striding down the center aisle, all the guys seated there staring after her like panting dogs in heat—including Joe Cosmo, who was gay—Mrs. Van der Veer flipped on the projector, and the black and white opening credits of “Citizen Kane” flickered across the pulled-down screen. “’Citizen Kane’ is largely considered Orson Welles’ magnum opus. Allow us to dissect the opening scene…” 

Andy had never wished to hard for a pillow.  
**  
Friday, March 24, 1984

“…and you’re not getting out of *this* one, missy! I know you’ve managed to slither your way out of proper punishment in the past, but this isn’t one of those times. You skipped class. You need to be punished.”

Claire Standish sighed, her cheek in her palm, whilst Vince Principal Vernon blathered on and on as he lambasted her on the other end of the phone—about how she needed to respect boundaries, how she was a privileged brat, how she thought she could do whatever she liked and damn the consequences. The thing was, the perpetually badly dressed, aggravating little man wasn’t *wrong*. She knew that she was quite privileged. And, as of, well, today, her father, the so-called King of Chicago with a yearly income of, like, a whole lot, had been able to get her out of any repercussions of her actions. Quite easily, since he donated to the school and all. But, in the past, any tight spots she’d managed to get into usually had to do with her wardrobe and breaking the ridiculous, sexist dress code. Ugh, skirts had to be knee-length, as well as shorts—what kind of bizarre shorts were *knee-length*?—and tank tops were verboten. Yet, the only exclusion for boys was “No hats” because they blocked the blackboard or something. As such, the guys could go around in, ew, pants that were *way* too big for them with their underpants hanging out like it was a fashion statement and not, you know, underpants. 

Yet, God forbid Claire wear a pair of shorts when it got hot! 

She loathed that she had to listen to the angry dictator ramble on tonight; she’d rather be doing literally anything else. Alas, because her “misdeed” hadn’t been discovered until after school hours on a Friday, Vernon was heroically taking time out of his busy schedule to properly scold her via telecommunication. 

Claire was a good girl, in general. The teachers and administration adored her, even surly Ms. Abernathy in the admin office. She rarely talked back, always had an astute response to any question asked of her in class, and kept a sparkling GPA. 3.8, which wasn’t bad at all in her opinion. She just wasn’t a math person. Or a science person. 

“You’re lucky Principal Rooney opted not to suspend you,” Vernon grumbled. Obviously, he’d suggested otherwise. ‘Rooney would never suspend me; Daddy might stop the yearly payments, then.’ “I *will* see you tomorrow. Library. 7:40 on the dot. Don’t be late!” 

The click of his hanging up ended the “discussion”. Claire pressed the OFF button on the cordless and stared at the ceiling. ‘Thank *God* that’s over.’ She’d been forced to listen to the jackass for a good thirty minutes. She’d totally missed the first half of “Dallas”! 

Claire threw herself down into the leather sofa beside her father, who was watching the antics of David Hasselhoff on “Knight Rider” and sipping from a glass of Merlot. At her abrupt appearance, Richard Standish gazed askance at her with a quirked red eyebrow. “All done, then?”

Groaning, Claire buried her face in the nearest throw pillow. “Ugh. Yes.” Annoyed, and running out of oxygen, she removed the pillow and whined. “Daddy, can’t you *please* get me out of this?!”  
Her father chuckled. “I’ve gotten you out of a dozen scrapes by now, honey. You’re just going to have to take a ‘stiff upper lip’ stance here. Besides, I hate having to deal with that Vernon character, you know that.”

The last time he’d (barely) gotten her out of an after-school detention for a dress code violation—a Madonna shirt with the word “bitch” on the back; heaven forbid anyone use “foul language”—Richard had driven home in an aggravated rage, mumbling all the while about “Hitler in a leisure suit”. 

Claire pouted. “But I have *plans* tomorrow! It’s Saturday!” 

“Should’ve thought of that *before* you skipped class to…what was it? Go shopping?”

Claire’s older brother, Josh, sailed out of the kitchen clutching a half-eaten sandwich. He took one look at his sister and snickered. “Hope you got some good deals, at least!” 

Scowling, Claire flipped him off. Josh cackled and disappeared up the twisty marble staircase. He had his own apartment, but sometimes her brother slept over here when he came by to drop off his laundry. Heaven forbid, too, that a Standish do their own chores. 

Richard Standish patted Claire’s leg through her nude panty hose. “I’ll drop you off tomorrow. Better get some rest, you gotta wake up early!”

Claire sighed, threw her arms up in annoyance, pushed herself off the couch, and noisily stomped up the stairs in her camel-colored riding boots. Ugh. Ugh! There could be no possible worse fate for a teenager than having to sacrifice an entire Saturday rotting away in the school library. 

Unless, of course, said teenager was a nerd. And Claire Standish was definitely *no* nerd. 

Flying into her bedroom, she quickly changed into one of her satin nightgowns, brushed her teeth, and climbed into bed. She had missed the entire episode of “Dallas”! Now. She’d be totally lost next week. 

‘Thanks a lot, Mr. Vernon.’ 

What a lame-o. 

**  
John was leafing through Vernon’s manila folders and input and output trays and whatever other shit littered the top of his desk when Tricky Dick himself entered the office. The sound of the heavy metal door closing behind the dude did not disturb John’s reading, nor Dick pointedly clearing his throat. John was far too engrossed. Damn, this was good stuff! Angela Freeman had been caught literally with her pants down rounding third base with her boyfriend in the girls’ locker room! Ladonna Griffin told her U.S. History teacher to shove it earlier; hey, why wasn’t *she* getting the Saturday treatment too?! And Anthony Hewlitt forced a J.V. player to swallow a live goldfish as a hazing ritual. Nice.

Once again, ol’ Dick cleared his throat behind him. “Ahem.” 

John held up a glove-encased hand. He had to find out whether that freshman had indeed swallowed the goldfish. 

Vernon exhaled loudly through his nostrils—‘Dude *does* think he’s a bull, don’t he?’—stalked across the room behind his desk, and smacked his palms audibly on the desktop. “*Ahem*!” 

Glowering, Bender closed the folder with Hewlitt’s name on the tab and tossed it back atop the messy desk. Thing looked like a small tornado had torn through it. “You know, Dick, patience is a virtue!” 

Dick crossed his arms over his stupid green leisure suit. “Not one I have when dealing with *you*, Mr. Bender! You try my every ounce of patience!” 

Bender grinned, proud of himself. If there was one thing he knew he was damn good at, it was driving Dick up the proverbial wall. 

Bueller had Rooney covered, but he sometimes fell down that rabbit hole, too. They were just too easy. 

“I’m *sure* you’re incredibly proud of that,” Dick drawled without inflection, and John chuckled. Rolling his eyes, Vernon reached behind his desk—in a drawer or something—pulled out a *very* hefty manila folder containing arbitrary pieces of paper sticking out of the openings at all angles, and plunked it heavily on top of the desk. John’s file was so cumbersome, its weight knocked over a nearby ceramic apple, and he laughed some more. Vernon glared, then opened the folder and began thumbing through the contents. The many, many contents. “Well, Mr. Bender, you’re just two Saturdays away from a suspension!” 

In the hard-backed gray chair, Bender shrugged. “Who cares? A suspension’s a free vacation in my book.” And no one at home would give a shit if he got the Big S on his permanent record, anyway. Still. It was a good thing he’d paid Ms. Abernathy to change the number on file to his own personal line. The last thing he needed was his old man finding out that he’d fucked up. Again. 

Tricky Dick sighed and templed his hands as he began to read about his latest offence. Not that he needed to; the man in the stupid Day-Glo leisure suit had turned him in, after all. Vernon just liked hearing himself talk. “Threw the fire alarm. Hilarious.” Time to Get Icky With Dicky glanced at him over the manila folder. “Not a very clever prank, though, I must say. Losing your touch, are we?”

John scoffed. ‘As if.’ He was the undisputed champ of the art of pranking here at Shermer, thank you very much! He’d never run out of ideas! “I was dared. Sir. Otherwise, I would have made that prank more…creative. Maybe attach some fishing line to it.” 

And add Mr. Kinsley’s toupee, while he was at it. Shouldn’t be too hard to acquire; he’d snatched it before for his flagpole prank, an homage to his grandpop. Teach always did laps in the school swimming pool after hours…and stuck the rug in a rusty footlocker. 

Dick set down the folder. “You know, Mr. Bender, I can *probably* wrangle a lesser punishment if you tell me the names of your cohorts. Perhaps even a pardon.”

A pardon would’ve been sweet, but… 

John laughed. “Not a chance.” 

Snitches get stitches and all that bunk. He’d never give his buddies up, no matter how annoyed he was with them for leaving his ass behind while they scrambled to get the hell out of Dodge earlier. 

Dick pursed his wormy lips. “Thought so. In any event, this warrants a Saturday.”

Reaching into his desk, he produced a small pad of pink slips, jotted down his name, the date, “library”, “7:40 A.M.”, and the reason he was receiving detention down on the top sheet, ripped it off, and gleefully handed the pink rectangle across the desk to Bender. John grabbed it and stuffed it inside his denim jacket without bothering to read it. 

“Gee, thanks, Dick!” he crowed with mock sugary sweetness, jumping to a standing position. “If there’s nothing else, little old me will be on my way.” With a perfunctory salute, he disappeared out the door. 

To his surprise, Bueller was there waiting for him, one Chuck Taylor flat against the wall, another on the floor, his arms folded over his “Frankie Say Relax” t-shirt. The red leather “Thriller” jacket from the M.J. video was a nice touch, he had to admit. The sparkly glove, though, just made him look nuts. “Bueller? The hell are you doin’ here?” 

Ferris Bueller lowered his foot. Guy was all right, as far as richies went. Shit, *everyone* liked Ferris Bueller. The stoners, the jock meatheads, the pretty, pretty princesses, the nerds, the cheerleaders. He thought Bueller had recently started seeing a cheerleader, in fact. Sloane Peterson. Hot as hell. Smart as a tack, too. Dude was a lucky asshole. 

It was difficult not to like Ferris. He had a huge house that he always opened up to his friends and acquaintances and people he barely knew. He was intelligent but not a brain and didn’t show off his genius like a freak. He got away with wearing the most bizarre shit. And with *doing* the most bizarre shit. Just last week, he’d come to school in a bikini. Complete with top stuffed with tissues. A month ago, he drove his car around and around the football field. At the beginning of the school year, he climbed to the roof of Shermer High during a *legitimate* fire drill, butt ass naked, and led everyone in a rousing rendition of “YMCA”. Even John and the other burnouts had participated. 

Plus, Bueller was forever getting into it with Principal Rooney. The other day, he’d straight up pantsed the man as he stood in line to get food from the cafeteria. Fucking hilarious. 

All of this instantly earned him Bender’s respect. Especially the pantsing thing. 

Bueller grinned. “Why, John! Is that any way to greet an old friend?!” 

Bender remained unmoved. “Apparently. Again I ask what you’re doing here.”

Ferris Bueller sighed and ran a hand through his occasionally Brillo Pad-esque hair. “Ah, I’m waiting on Rooney. I’m supposed to be getting punished!”

John’s smirk was entirely of its own volition. “What’d you do this time?”

The guy shrugged. “I may or may not have dropped a cherry bomb in Rooney’s office bathroom.”

Up went one of John’s brows. “*Where* in the bathroom?”

“The toilet, obviously.”

Heh. Classic. 

“Buuuutttt I’m getting bored waiting out here,” Bueller went on. Bending down, he retrieved his blue knapsack and hefted the thing over his skinny shoulder. “What the hell is taking so long? I’m invoking the five-minute rule. Come on, let’s get some pizza.”

The five-minute rule: if a teacher (or, in this case, a principal) failed to show up five minutes after the bell, the class (or, in this case, Ferris Bueller) could leave. And the final bell for the day had rung way more than five minutes ago. 

“Only if you’re buyin’.” 

Bueller reached into his pants pocket and produced a wad of cash held together by a Batman money clip. “Methinks I can afford a few slices of pizza despite the ridiculous cost of, like, everything in Chicago.”

Ferris was the rare richie who actually understood the value of a dollar. 

‘A few *slices*?’ John was more apt to eat an entire pie by his damn self. With all the works. Though he preferred Meat Lovers’. 

At the local pizzeria, Antonio’s Awesome Pizza, they nearly smacked headlong into a harried-looking kid who quite resembled Bueller. Skinny with one of those bowl cuts, the kid mumbled an apology and dashed out the door, muttering something about global thermonuclear war. 

Yes, seriously. These were crazy times. Reagan kept poking the Russian bear (“The Soviet Union is an evil empire!” etcetera), and Gorbachev was *this close* to unleashing all hell on the decadent west. 

The movies that were inspired by the Cold War were pretty sweet, though. John had just gone to see “Red Dawn”. Instant classic, that one. 

Bewildered, they both watched him go, then slowly turned to regard each other. “Damn. Think he’s a Russian spy or what?”

“If he is, he’s not a very good one. I’m disappointed in the KGB.” 

Bueller snorted in amusement and raced up to the counter to order a pepperoni pie. John claimed a table near the window and sneered at the two nerds in the booth beside his. One had braces and a puff of blondish hair. Another was hairy as fuck. 

“Careful with that pizza, dork,” Bender snickered. “Don’t wanna get any cheese stuck in that metal mouth of yours.”

Dang, was he grateful that he’d gotten his own braces off in the eighth grade. A metal mouth wasn’t exactly badass, nor worked with his general image. 

The two dorks glanced quickly away, speaking quietly to themselves. Probably talking about comic books or trading insults in Klingon. Whatever nerds did in their spare time.

‘Having wet dreams about homework.’ 

John snorted, entertained. Sometimes, he killed him. 

Bueller returned with the steaming pie on a waiter’s platter—where he’d gotten that, Bender had no idea—and a pitcher of Hawaiian punch. They ate. Bueller greeted the dorks by name—Brian and Larry. Dork names, for sure. Ferris detailed his best friend, Cameron Frye, repeatedly getting into trouble with his old man for existing, a bit too close for comfort. Bender asked him about Sloane, and Bueller got this look on his face like he’d just been slapped with a trout. 

Afterwards, they used some of the change left over to play some arcade games. The pizzeria didn’t exactly have a boast-worthy selection, but they did have Donkey Kong, and that would do for John.  
As the sun went down, John knew that he needed to head for his shithole of a house because it was Friday and on Friday nights, all the local gangs came out to raise hell. Sell on the street corners. 

Loot crap from storefronts. Steal cars. Make a mess, in general. Those guys were *hardcore*. Not even John would dare to fuck with them. 

John left Bueller bent over Pac-Man, an intense expression on his face. Ferris would win the Pac-Man high score if it killed him. 

When he arrived home, back on good, old Kenny’s Cove Drive in his working class neighborhood, it was to his parents screaming at each other. John sneered and rolled his eyes, but since his old man wasn’t getting *violent*, just *loud*, he saw no reason to intervene. Instead, he began to tromp up the rickety wooden staircase littered with crap. His ma’s pocket book. A few empty cartons of Chinese takeout. Bottles of beer and vodka. 

“Boy! Don’t you lock that door again, ya hear?!” the old man growled, taking a break from verbally lashing his ma, apparently. 

John merely nodded and started up the stairs. His room hadn’t come with a lock on the door, but he’d installed one himself to keep his dad from…being his dad. Barging into his room in the middle of the night and literally dragging him out of bed by the ankle. Or standing there in a shadowy corner watching him, looking creepy as fuck. Stealing what little money he managed to make to buy more booze and cigars. Unfortunately, Jake had broken through the lock easily. So, in response, John installed *two* locks. Those were smashed with a sledge hammer. 

“Now, Laura, jus’ tell me the truth. Did ya drink m’ last beer?!”

“I *told* you a dozen times, Jake! I—“

John slammed his bedroom door shut before he could hear his ma’s excuses or justifications or whatever. He was still so *angry* with her, and he didn’t even know if he had the *right* to be angry with her. He was beyond pissed and upset with his ma for falling off the wagon. But…had that really been her fault? Could he truly expect someone who’d been on pills for the better part of a decade to successfully go cold turkey? There had to be a reason why all of her previous attempts at sobriety had failed. And they sure as shit couldn’t afford rehab. 

Muffling the echo of his folks arguing, John turned on the Nintendo he’d dressed up as a giant burger for an entire summer to get and permitted himself to get lost in Space Invaders.

All the while, his parents quarreled. And John barely blinked an eye.  
**  
For the “crime” of, eh, unintentionally blowing up his locker (and destroying the evidence of his failure, the stupid ceramic elephant lamp whose trunk-light refused to go on no matter how many times Brian finessed the equations, fickled with the interior skeleton, and swapped out any parts he figured to be unnecessary), he, Brian Ralph Johnson, would be sent to Saturday detention tomorrow at 7:40 A.M. *He* had Saturday detention! The sky may as well have been falling, that was how much that statement made sense. Brian had never even gotten an after-school, let alone a Saturday. He usually spent his Saturdays in Larry’s basement playing Dungeons and Dragons!

A whole Saturday ruined. And all because he’d momentarily blinked out and brought a weapon to school. It could barely be counted as such, Brian knew, because the flare gun wasn’t strong enough to seriously hurt anyone, maybe give them first-degree burns, but, evidently, it *was* strong enough to cause a wee explosion in his locker. 

Great. 

In addition, he not only had to visit with Dr. Hashimoto, the guidance counselor, once a week until the man was satisfied that he wasn’t going to riot through the school or whatever. But he also had to attend after-school group therapy sessions—again, until the head of the group, Emily, decided he wasn’t suicidal. Or homicidal. Any –cidal. 

“…and then she got me the newest Beastie Boys album when I told her over and over again I’m a Duran Duran fan!”

Brian couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the dramatic blonde across from him, regaling her tale about her “horrendous” mother. So far, everything she’d listed—not the right car, not the right brand of lipstick, not the right size jeans—just showed Brian, and everyone else in the group, that this girl’s mother went out of her way to buy her daughter’s affections, and it wasn’t working. 

Heck, *everyone* in this little therapy circle here had Rich People Problems. One guy kept whining about his fully restored Mustang getting towed. Another was into a girl who wasn’t “their people”.

There was the girl who couldn’t decide which amazing vacation she wanted to go on, a country-wide tour of Japan or an all-inclusive Bahaman cruise. The lady beside him could not stop bitching about a waitress at her country club. And then there was the girl across from him and her evil, evil mother. 

Meanwhile, Brian had brought a certified *weapon* to school with the intention of using it on himself. That couldn’t compare to…any of this, and now he felt embarrassed to talk about it. 

“Remember, everyone,” Emily began in a soothing voice. Sounded like his mom’s yoga instructor. “You can say anything here and it won’t be repeated or judged. This is a safe space.”

‘”Safe space” my ass,’ Brian groused. The perpetually angry lady beside him was muttering and punching buttons on her electronic organizer. 

Emily clasped her hands in her lap and smiled in his direction. “Brian? Do you want to share your story now?”

The rest of the group turned to regard him, most apathetically. Brian sighed. ‘Let’s get this over with…’ 

Later, at home, Brian was just slumping through the door when his mom, dressed as usual in a jogging suit, hair permed to within an inch of its life, big, clunky earrings, and too much blue eye shadow, demanded to know where he’d been. “It’s almost 7:30, Brian! I was worried!”

Sighing, Brian’s index fingers began massaging his temples in tight circles. He didn’t have patience for his mother’s over-overprotection tonight. “Mom, I told you! I called you on the payphone at school, remember? I had a group therapy meeting…thing.”

Mercedes Johnson waved this explanation off. “Therapy-schmerapy! You don’t need to go to that! You just need more fruits and vegetables in your diet. Look at you! You’re so skinny. That’s why you’re depressed. You need to eat more! And tuck in your shirt! What is this, a frat party?!”

Brian clenched his teeth but did as his mother “requested”, tucking his shirt inside his pants. “Mom, I have to. It was the principal’s orders. If I don’t, they’ll suspend me. Or worse.”

Mrs. Johnson rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. I’ll have a talk with your principal. What’s his name again? Moony?” 

“Rooney,” Brian corrected automatically. “Ed Rooney. But you don’t need to do that—“

“Nonsense! My son does not need therapy, group or otherwise. He’s just fine!”

Upstairs, Brian Johnson was definitely not fine. Letting his knapsack slide off his shoulder and thwack to the floor, he listlessly dug through its contents for his Physics text, his Physics notebook, his calculator, and slunked across the room to his desk. He was *so* not in the mood for this tonight. He loved physics—obviously; he was Treasurer of the Physics Club—but, right now, all he wanted to do was sleep. Speaking about what had led him to mandatory group therapy, dissecting it for all those rich people whose major problems in life seemed to be getting their cars towed and missing a concert, had left him exhausted. Just…done. 

Brian lethargically opened his Physics text…and promptly fell asleep on top of the smiling visage of Carl Sagan.


	3. Chapter 1.5 (part 1): We Are Not Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I tried to tweak this part to fit where it should be after y'all liked both potential first chapters but if it doesn't work this (and the next part) should be squeezed between chapters 1 and 2, with the alternate being made chapter 2 now. Hope that makes sense xD

Chapter 1.5: We Are Not Alone

Claire Standish had no idea that, once she stepped into that library on Saturday, March 24th, her entire worldview would change. She couldn’t have known; she wasn’t psychic! As such, she regarded the upcoming punishment with utter dread. Like she was one of Henry VIII’s wives, about to walk to her own execution. 

Greta woke her up at six on the dot, and she groaned in agony, perhaps hoping to trick the maid into believing that she had a stomach ache and was simply too sick to go. ‘Sorry, Mr. Vernon, I’ll make it up next time’ with the understanding that “Hitler in a leisure suit” would likely forget all about her, eh, little shopping misdeed at some point. He had a whole school to (vice) run! Surely, he couldn’t and wouldn’t want to keep track of a single student who may have bent the rules a bit. 

A lot. Whatever. 

But Greta wasn’t falling for her charge’s attempts at playing hooky. With a patient smile—Claire was the only one who could coerce such an expression from the generally surly maid—Greta patted her hand and threw the covers off her body. “Miss Schtand-isch, I am not falling for it, no? I know when you are trying to get out of responsibility! Up, up! It is going to be a long Saturday if you dawdle.” 

‘It is going to be a long Saturday no matter what I do.’

With an aggravated grunt, Claire climbed out of bed, ripped her sleep blindfold off her face, and padded indolently to her expansive wardrobe. All the while, Greta was bustling out of her room chuckling. Her eyes sleep-encrusted (and her hair probably looking a horror), she glared at the maid’s back, then slowly sifted through acres and acres of clothing. Between her dresser and her closet, she had more apparel than Contempo Casuals, and she knew it. 

And it was all much better quality than anything at Contempo Casuals. 

Putting on her big girl panties, Claire ultimately decided on a pink shirt and a dark brown ankle-length skirt from Ralph Lauren, then stuffed her feet into her favorite cognac-colored riding boots. Just because she was about to *endure* hell didn’t mean that she had to *look* like it. Grabbing her pocket book, she trudged downstairs for breakfast, in the mood for crepes, realized that Chef Francesco had off on weekends, and, further annoyed, grabbed a box of granola bars out of the cupboard. 

Josh was already at the table dressed in his work duds. He was a T.A. to his Art History professor and earned a really crappy wage for the job. Her brother often opined that his shit salary was worth it if it meant that he had rent to pay for a place away from Nora.

“Ready for prison?” her brother snarked as she sat down at the table with her pathetic strawberry banana yogurt and a granola bar. 

Claire scowled and tore open the granola bar’s packaging. “Oh, just…shut up.”

Her brother snickered. “’Shut up’? That the best you can do nowadays?”

Shaking her red head, she took a vicious bite out of the bar—and cringed as soon as the granola hit her taste buds. ‘Mmm. Cardboard-y.’ “It’s way too early in the morning to come up with something better.”

Josh glanced at the glowing green numbers on the microwave. “You’ve never had a problem this early before.”

“This is a *Saturday*! Normally, I’d be sleeping until noon,” Claire groused, taking another bite out of the granola bar despite its cardboard-y taste. “My inner clock is all whacked.” ‘And it’s all Vernon’s fault.’ 

Okay, it was kind of her fault. She hadn’t *had* to go with her friends, right? She hadn’t *had* to skip the last three periods of the day. Right?

Claire scoffed. *Of course* she’d had to. The Club would’ve thought her a lame-o otherwise and she couldn’t live with that reputation. 

Sometimes, she really hated her friends.

‘Pfft. They’re not *even* friends. We’re all like colleagues, and our job is being popular and shit.’ 

Truer words had never been spoken. Or thought of. 

Before Josh could reply, her dad came thundering down the stairs, all smiles as usual and dressed to impress in a blue Armani suit and shiny Ferragamo leather shoes. In one hand, he carried a black matte briefcase. In the other, his car keys. 

Claire groaned. Her father was a huge morning person; he loved getting up at the crack of dawn to go to work. Even on Sundays, when he was off, he still rose before the sun did. He claimed this practice to be “invigorating”. 

What. Ever. 

“All set, princess?” her father asked, voice way too chipper for this early in the morning. 

Claire didn’t rise from the table. “Do I have to?”

Richard Standish mock-glared at her. She knew that her father could never be truly angry with her in any circumstance. She was his only daughter, the apple of his eye, and she could do no wrong. According to him, anyway. “Yes, you *have* to go. Otherwise, I’ll be getting more calls from that…from your vice principal.”

Josh grinned around a mouthful of banana-nut muffin. Her brother had no love lost for Mr. Vernon, either. The man had been *his* vice principal, too. And, according to Josh, had made his life at Shermer a “living hell” simply because of who his father was. 

“Come,” her dad said now. “We better go or we’ll be late. You know how much I hate being late.”

It was true. Her father was notorious for arriving at least a half-hour too early for things because the mere notion of tardiness sent him into fits. 

Climbing to her feet reluctantly, Claire hurled the barely touched granola bar into the nearest waste pail and put the unopened yogurt back in the fridge. No use wasting perfectly good yogurt. Giving a put-upon sigh, Claire lethargically walked behind her father as he led them outside and into the massive attached garage. Richard had a car collection to rival most auto shows. BMWs, Mercedes, a Bentley, generations of Corvettes going back to the original Mako Shark days of the fifties. A Lamborghini. A DeLorean. A Miata. A ’65 Mustang convertible, fully restored. Some exclusive model from Sweden that Claire couldn’t and wouldn’t even begin to pronounce. 

Her father headed toward one of the BMWs and unlocked the driver’s and passenger’s side doors. “We’ll take the BMW this morning. Not as ostentatious.”

Right. A BMW amid the Dodge caravans and Izuzus and Chrysler Sebrings that parked in the Shermer High lot. Totally not ostentatious at all. 

In the car, Claire pressed her forehead against the window. It was so early, there was still condensation dotting the glass. She could smell last night’s rain lingering in the air. 

Her dad clapped her on the arm. “Chin up, sweetheart! You’ll come through this unscathed, trust me. Your old man had a few Saturdays of his own back in the day.”

Richard Standish, *the* Richard Standish, had, at one point, been nothing but a young punk in a “legalize hemp” t-shirt and too long hair. Her father was completely self-made. He didn’t even use the two-year degree he’d managed to obtain. His first big break, his humor magazine—which people desperately needed during those uneasy times just before the war in Vietnam escalated—was a major success in Chicago. At only twenty-two, the man was a millionaire. 

Once he branched out, his “millionaire” status worked itself up the ladder to “billionaire”. 

“Glad I didn’t have your Mr. Vernon back then, though,” he continued musing. “On the other hand, I probably would’ve had a field day with the likes of him.”

At that, Claire had to laugh a little. Her dad had always been a bit of a prankster. She could only imagine what he’d been like as a teenager. 

“Hm. Wonder if Carl is still around,” he went on. “Won the Man of the Year award when we graduated, damn right he did. I bet he’s incredibly successful now.”

In the parking lot, she stared out ahead of her into the void. “I can’t *believe* you can’t get me out of this. I mean, it’s so absurd that I have to be here on a Saturday. It’s not like I’m a defective or anything.”

Richard sighed and smiled at her. “I’ll make it up to you. Honey, skipping class to go shopping doesn’t make you a defective. Have a good day.”

Rolling her eyes, Claire grabbed her purse from her father’s outstretched hand and climbed out of the car. Her father waved to her as he drove away, and she only halfheartedly returned the gesture. 

It was so *weird* to be here on a Saturday. The halls were totally empty, with the exception of the janitor listening to music through a Walkman while mopping up the floor. Claire carefully skirted around him and headed for the library, passing by the ridiculously tacky homage to Michelle Manning’s bid for Junior Prom Queen. She sneered. ‘Is that *crepe paper*? What are we, twelve?’

Once in the library, she grabbed a seat at the first open desk she saw.

Much to her surprise—and relief—Andy Clark followed soon after her. She’d thought, for a moment, that she’d be alone in this cavernous library with only a geek in an ill-fitting green sweatshirt to accompany her. But at least there was someone from her group in which to wile away the next dull eight hours with. Even if they were only mild acquaintances within the A-group, at least he *was* in the A-group with her. 

A few minutes after Andy sat down, that weird girl who never combed her hair and always wore that same huge black coat wordlessly paced into the library and dodged for a seat in the back. Obviously, it was in the back. Claire shared a few classes with her, and she, without fail, would always claim a desk in the back of the room. Like she didn’t want to be seen. Or hoped to melt into the wall or whatever. Meanwhile, the girl stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the Benetton ad that was the junior class. Bright sweaters everywhere. 

A moment later, a boy Claire vaguely knew in passing, mostly from any shared classes with him (not that he showed up often), sauntered inside the library like he frigging owned the place. Too long hair. Too long, shabby coat. Sunglasses indoors. Claire was on guard instantly. *This* was the guy her mother had always warned her to stay the heckfire away from. 

He claimed the very seat the nerd in the green sweatshirt was sitting in, scaring him out of it, messed with Vernon for a bit (she had to admit that the “Does Marry Manilow know you raid his wardrobe?” comment was kind of funny; at least she wasn’t the only one who took issue with the man’s horrid apparel) and proceeded to, after fucking with the nerd for a minute, annoy the crap out of both Claire and Andy. Throwing wadded-up paper. Humming rock anthems. Demanding to know whether they were dating or not. “Lovers” was his exact wording. 

Claire ignored him until he asked Andy, whom he called Sporto, whether he slipped her the “hot beef injection” and she angrily told him to go to Hell. 

‘I don’t have the patience for this.’ 

Great. Now, he’d unloosened a screw in the library door (after suggesting the “homeboy” in the green sweatshirt help him close it so that they could impregnate her—ew, what the hell was this guy’s childhood trauma?) causing it to slam shut, which alerted Vernon, their jailer for the day, it seemed. Barging in wearing a gray leisure suit, he demanded to know why the door was closed. 

The boy with the long hair was playing innocent. Naturally. And Vernon was ordering he return the screw, which the guy insisted he didn’t have—“Screws fall out all the time; the world’s an imperfect place.” And Claire *really* had no patience for this. Not today. Not when she should’ve been sleeping. Or at Café Monica laughing about something or other with her friends over frothing cappuccinos. 

“Excuse me, sir,” she found herself butting into the absurd argument, wanting this nonsense to end already. “Why would anyone want to steal a *screw*?” 

The boy looked at her like he couldn’t believe she’d—technically—stood up for him. Claire sneered at him. 

Vernon circled back to her and pointed a finger right in her face. “You watch that tone, young lady! Watch it!” 

Claire rolled her eyes. ‘How can he be such an asshole this early on a Saturday?’

Agog, she could only watch while the boy and Vernon got into a sparring match over the word “shit” and, stubbornly, he refused to back down when their vice principal awarded him two extra months worth of Saturdays. Even Claire had to intervene and *very politely* suggest he stop it. He did not. 

When Vernon left, he screamed “FUCK YOU” at the door, and Claire knew that the man had heard it. 

Claire had to begrudgingly admit, that whole…interlude had taken balls. A man like Vernon walked around wielding what little power he’d managed to obtain like it was a shield, a tangible thing, a lightning rod that he could hurl at unsuspecting students at any time. Vernon had, indeed, hurled those lightning rods, Shermer’s own version of Zeus in his demented little mind, over and over again, and the boy—she thought Andy had referred to him as “Bender”; she *really* had to pay more attention to what her classmates’ names were—how else was she supposed to sign yearbooks at the end of the year?—deflected every single one, not even backing down when she recommended it. 

That really had taken balls. And Claire was intrigued in spite of herself. 

Which was how she found herself studying him, this mysterious boy whom Andy seemed to know better than she did—she knew he was a burner at least; only burnouts dressed like that, with all those layers and that long hair—it was pretty much the wasteoid fashion plate—at first, like an experiment, something she would’ve ended up dissecting in Bio and scrunching up her nose at how gross it all was. Then, with a more…avid interest. Her head in her hand, she watched him light his own boot on fire, then strike a cigarette on the flame. 

Idly, Claire found herself wondering what her parents’ reactions would be if she brought home a guy like this. Her father, comparably easy-going, would probably grill him while secretly laughing because hadn’t *he* been that type at their age? Her mother, though, would have a heart attack. Probably call the police. Cause a scene on the front porch. All that nonsense. 

Claire’s lips parted in a smile. Perhaps this day wouldn’t be so bad after all.

**  
Andy was in *no* mood. 

First off, he’d woken up way before he had to do so in order to reap penance for what he’d done to Larry Lester on Thursday to his folks arguing…again. This time, this episode in the Tim and Carol Show had to do with his brother, Jack, and the interest he’d expressed in joining the peewee football team in Shermer. His father, of course, was very much for this; his mom, not so much. When Jack had voiced the idle thought aloud last night at dinner, Andy felt his blood run cold. No doubt, his old man would take his third son, all of twelve and only a seventh grader, under his “wing” and introduce him to his own brand of “coaching”. He really wished Jack had shown an interest in something else, *anything* else. Music. Painting. Fucking water dancing. Anything was preferable to a legitimate sport that Tim could use to drive his unsuspecting brother into the ground. 

If that wasn’t enough, the waffle iron had finally crapped out after overstaying its warranty by a few years, and all Andy’d had to eat that morning was a tasteless bowl of Corn Flakes. He was an athlete, damnit, he needed more calories than this shit! Then, his mom had to run to work at the last minute—someone calling in sick or something—and since the Clarks only had one car, it was up to his old man to drive him in the family Bronco. Andy would’ve preferred to walk. 

Now, he was sitting here in the library bored out of his freaking mind, locked in a vacancy with four other people—Claire Standish (an acquaintance he knew from his own crowd), a nerd in a green sweatshirt Vernon, their warden for the day, had referred to only as “Johnson” (‘heh, *Johnson*’), that kind of freaky girl from his Painting and Acrylics class who never combed her hair and wore this gigantic black coat, and…John fucking Bender. Of course, *the* burnout of Shermer High would be in Saturday detention. 

Andy knew Bender—outside the way any Shermer student knew the guy; he was pretty notorious—because he and his buddies were always outside on the bleachers smoking dope and pointing and laughing as he and the rest of the wrestlers ran cross-country and performed their outdoor exercises and stuff. Normal shit like toe-touches and running in place and handstands. Yet, the wasteoids were *always*, *always* there, snickering and smoking. Excuse him for working out with his teammates, fuck’s sake. 

He’d confronted them once, demanded to know what they found so humorous. But the assholes just looked at each other and cracked up some more—that one kid, Tyson Carter, had been so high off his rocker, he’d fallen off the bleachers completely in his hilarity and continued squirming around laughing on the ground—and Andy scoffed, gave up, and walked away, pissed. He kept telling himself that those shitheads weren’t worth getting all riled up over. And, besides—five against one, right? And was good but not a superhero. 

So, to glimpse John-damn-Bender in here wasn’t much of a shock. What was, however, was that he was the sole offering among the burnouts here today. 

And he’d acted just how Andy would’ve assumed—by driving him and Claire nuts. Messing with school property. Messing with *Vernon*. Then, when Claire started whining about her poor little rich girl life, and how her parents sucked (and the unexpected reaction from that weird girl—“Ha!”—that left Andy wholly amused; at last, someone was willing to call Claire Standish out on her bullshit), the burnout came to her rescue (after joking about impregnating her earlier and calling her a cherry) like a gall-damn white knight in not-so-shining denim and a cloud of sativa and demanded to know if *he*, Andy, got along with his folks. 

Andy was not about to confess all to this creep in Doc Martens. No way. Crying to the most infamous wasteoid at the school that his daddy was a piece of crap. Yeah, that’d go over great. He totally wouldn’t use it later on as blackmail or anything. “Well, if I say ‘yes’, I’m an idiot. Right?” 

Bender hopped off the library’s railing, where he’d been sitting ripping up a copy of Molière’s “The Misanthrope” like a dumbass and pronouncing the guy’s name like Molay and looking stunned that Claire knew how to *correctly* pronounce it (how many brain cells were left in Bender’s noggin by now? Like two, right?), he said, "You're an idiot anyway. But if you say you get along with your parents, well you're a liar too." Then he tried to get under the girl’s skin by being gross and crass and insisting her name was a “fat girl’s name” and taunting her over her virginity, and Andy snapped. He and Claire weren’t exactly best buds or anything, but she *was* in his general orbit—she had dated one of the guys on the team earlier this year—and she was looking *really* uncomfortable…kinda. 

Andy followed Bender to the middle of the bizarre statue of a half-chopped down tree—he thought it was supposed to be the tree of learning or whatever; in that case, why was it cut in half? Or did the librarians just assume they were all stupid?—smacked him in the back of the neck, and told him straight up that if they weren’t in school right now, he’d waste him. Something that he’d been wanting to do to John Bender and his cronies for a while now. And then wrestled him to the floor.

Bender flipped him off as was his wont and glared down at him, probably lording his height advantage over Andy to the nth degree; he seemed to be that type. The dork with the penis euphemism for a surname, also taller than the both of them, like a fucking Maypole, began stuttering like a fool about his own crappy parents. 

Bender called him a “neo-maxi-zoom-dweebie”. Whatever that was. 

Andy threatened him if he so much as looked at Claire for the rest of the day. Something told him that said threat would go in one ear and out the other. Not that Bender had any brain left in between those ears to begin with.  
**  
Allison’s Saturday had not started off particularly groovy, either. 

Not that she would’ve expected anything less at this point. 

Eleanor was away on an early-morning photoshoot in Chicago—truly, the *real* reason she had bothered to return to this hole—and, after dressing herself in her usual image, trumped down the stairs to observe Lenore and Joseph picking at breakfast plates on either end of a very long dining room table. Her mother barely looked at her as she prepared a plate for herself and sat down in her usual chair. Her father smiled at her briefly, fleetingly, before returning to his eggs and his newspaper. 

Allison was tired, so very tired. This was the same song and dance routine she experienced every damn morning. And her fucking inner alarm clock would not permit her body to rest longer on the weekends; she would have to work on that ASAP. 

As it was, Lenore was still smarting over an argument she’d had with Eleanor the evening before—once again, over her sister’s profession—which made Allison’s morning that much worse, she could feel the tension radiating off her in waves, like cartoon bolts of anger, and as Joseph stood up, mumbling that he had to get to work, Allison made a split-second decision. 

“Dad, can you drop me off at school on the way? I have Saturday detention.” 

She did not. But Ally certainly had nothing better to do with her time. And she didn’t feel like making the trek to the War-house, lo it was only a few blocks from here.

Besides, detention seemed much more preferable to sitting in the chilly, enormous house all damn day. 

Joseph Reynolds sighed as though Allison had just asked him to do all her homework for her. “Detention? What did you do, Allison?”

Ally shrugged, trying to come up with something. “Late too many times for class, I guess.” 

At the head of the dining room table, Lenore Reynolds scoffed. “Of course. You know, Allison, tardiness is not a becoming habit in a lady.”

Allison’s eyes went half-mast as she coolly regarded her mother across foot after foot of sprawling polished cedar. 

Joseph gazed at his watch. “Fine, I suppose. I wish you had told me yesterday, Allison. I would have set aside more time.”

Again, Lenore scoffed. “That would require a modicum of concern and respect for others, and we know there’s not a shred of that in her.” 

Noisily, Allison scrambled out of her seat and all but hurled the breakfast plate in the sink. The fork made scratching sounds against the porcelain as she dumped the excess food down the trash compactor. 

In the parking lot, after Joseph nearly ran over some guy she kind of sort of recognized from one of her Art classes, she climbed out of the Cadillac, hesitating only a moment to wish her father a good day at work. He drove off before she had the chance. 

Keeping the angry tears at bay, Allison rushed inside the library and paced toward the desk furthest in the back. Turning her seat around so she didn’t have to face the rest of the detainees. Damn if she would let them all see her cry, not that they would give a crap either way. 

The morning passed without much consequence. Her four fellow detentionees—a nerdy kid she only vaguely recognized, Shermer’s star wrestler, that same guy her father had almost flattened, and Claire-fucking-Standish, one of Benny’s minions—gawked at her while she chewed on her thumbnail, she, bored, sketched out a winter-themed landscape (and used the dandruff from her hair as snow), she listened as the rest of them traded insults and complained about stupid shit—Claire Standish and her “woe is me” act—until Vernon came around for the third (or was it forth? Ally could barely be bothered to keep track) frigging time and reluctantly chose two students to retrieve drinks for everyone. 

Those two students chosen? She and the star wrestler. Whom she hated to admit was kind of cute in a campus pamphlet sort of way. 

‘Come to University of Whatever! All the boys here look like Ken dolls! And they’ll all totally want to date you, no matter how weird or quiet you were in high school!’ 

Right. 

Down the hall toward the teachers’ lounge, the wrestler—Andrew Clark, everybody knew who he was—tried to make idle conversation, asking her what her “poison” was. It was a bizarre moment for Ally, trotting down the hallway in the same vicinity as Andy Clark; he might as well have been Shermer’s answer to a celebrity. And, up close, he looked even more like a classic jock, what with his very sporty ensemble of a sweatshirt and jeans and all that thick blond hair parted to the side. He even *walked* like a Sport, a sort of swagger like he owned the damn place.

Fucking with him, she said “vodka” and he, a little amused—which annoyed her—wanted to know when she drank vodka and if that was why she was here today. Instantly turning the tables around, Allison demanded the same of him, and he rambled on about “winning” and “strength and speed” and “racehorse”. 

‘Yeah, okay, Golden Boy.’ 

“That’s *very* interesting,” Allison deadpanned, clearly not buying it. She could see right through him. Allison had always been able to quite easily read people; it came from all those lost hours spent people-watching. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you’re *really* in here?” 

Andy Clark scoffed, much in the way her mother had this morning, and insisted she forget it. 

If there was one thing Allison was used to, it was being summarily dismissed.  
**  
Brian Johnson had spent that morning having to listen to his mother rant and rave—again—that he’d managed to get a Saturday detention. How would this look on his transcripts? His GPA was definitely going to take a hit now! No college would take a problem child into their ranks!

No matter how many times Brian tried to point out the ill logic of this argument—there were kids who’d survived multiple suspensions and still managed to get into college; his cousin Kendall was proof of it—Mercedes Johnson refused to be moved or see reason. She just kept muttering to herself as she—angrily—put together a lunch bag for Brian—soup, PB&J, apple juice, cookies—and commanded that he go upstairs and ready Mary. His sister had to come along while he was dropped off because Ralph was off at work and there was no one to watch her. 

So, ready Mary he did, helping her wash up and changing her into a jogging suit that matched his mother’s—headband included—and attempting to ignore her singing, literally singing, about how he was such a disappointment and Mom was so maaaaadddd at you, Briaannnnnnnnn. 

To make an already uncomfortable morning that much worse, Mercedes refused to let him out of the car until he confirmed that yes, this was the *last* time he’d do this and he was going to get some studying done, no ifs, ands, or buts about it, mister! Mary wholeheartedly agreed. 

Simmering in his aggravation—with his mother, what his parents expected of him, how the school had responded to his *near suicide attempt*, his sister, all of it—Brian grabbed his lunch bag and, hangdog, stalked inside. At least the library was warm. He should know; he spent enough time in there working his ass off to please his folks. 

The morning was mostly uneventful—aside from Brian having to vacate his seat at John Bender’s say-so because the guy scared the hell out of him—with him attempting to interject some semblance of logic into this well of ridiculousness he found himself in. Trapped in the library with the strangest, most arbitrary group of people—Claire Standish, Miss Popular; Andrew Clark, Shermer High’s all-star wrestler; that weird girl in the big coat he always saw hulking around, he thought her name was Allison, or maybe Alexandra; and the aforementioned John Bender, who was exactly the type of person to always be stuck in here—he was finding his endeavors mostly moot. Warning Bender not to mess with the library door had fallen on deaf ears. Intervening between him and Andrew before they got into a knock-down drag-out ended with Brian nearly plowing into the tree statue. Hell, trying to take off his coat was met with disdain. 

He hated this place. 

Not the library, exactly. The school library, easily the nicest room in the whole institution, had been his oasis for the past three years. With its two floors of books, top of the line computer lab, and isolated study areas, the library had always been Brian’s domain. It felt *odd*, to be trapped here and *not* studying, enclosed with four other people he didn’t particularly want to be enclosed with. 

Andrew had been right that Brian damn near lived in here. When he couldn’t handle his classmates anymore, he escaped to the library. When he didn’t have anyone to eat with, he escaped to the library. When he’d been made to stay after-hours studying for a big exam at his parents’ insistence, the library was his only saving grace. He felt *comfortable* in the library. 

Generally, he did so. Not so much now. Brian’s anxiety was ratcheting through the roof, and at one point, he blindly reached for the inhaler in his pocket. His lungs needed the boost to survive today.

While Andrew and maybe-Allison were out getting their drinks, he, Claire Standish, and Bender remained in his library oasis. Brian perched on the staircase leading to the second floor while the burnout very obviously—at least to him—stared at Claire, leaning up against that same tree statue looking as though she wanted to be anywhere else—like he could see right through her clothes. And then tried to get her attention with a medical text book—specifically, with a picture of a patient with elephantitus of the genitals. She, strangely, did not wish to view that photograph.

He tried again by asking her if she would date someone like that if he had a cool car and stuff. Brian shook his head. The guy had not stopped messing with Claire all day so far, and it was damn evident as to why. ‘May as well be pulling her pigtails on the school bus.’ Not that Brian could entirely fault him. Claire *was* pretty, very much so, and everyone in Shermer knew who she was. The would-be Prom Queen. Junior Class President of the Student Council. Homecoming Princess. Former cheerleader. Richard Standish’s only daughter. 

Prim and proper, Wore lots of pink, as she was exhibiting today. New hairstyle every week. Dad dropped her off every morning in a BMW. Biggest house in town. Exactly the kind of girl a guy like John Bender would love to dirty up. 

Brian wrinkled his nose. He did not need those visuals. Absolutely not. 

John’s very transparent attempts at getting Claire’s goat shined on *him* somehow. The burnout was needling him for being a virgin. Well, he was no virgin! He had a girlfriend up in Canada; he met her at Niagara Falls!

Yeah, not even he believed that one. 

So Brian had to somehow subtly beg him to keep quiet in front of Claire, which he took as him “motioning” to her like 'he insinuated that they'd been “riding the hobby horse”, and Claire got mad and called him a pig and Brian wanted to melt into the floor and die as he admitted his virginity. 

It was *she* who came to his rescue, though, amid Bender’s barely veiled amusement. “I think it’s okay for a guy to be a virgin.” 

Brian was relieved, if still embarrassed. Bender gawked at her as though she had a screw loose. Like the library door. 

Then, at lunch, the burnout grossed them out more by claiming Claire’s clothing as *his* lunch and she, in turn, grossed them out by insisting on eating rice, raw fish, and seaweed. Allison took the cake, however, when she concocted this bizarre sandwich made out of Cap’n Crunch cereal, pixie sticks, and bread and left her pimento loaf clinging for dear life on top of the tree statue. 

This was turning into a very…*weird* day. 

It was obvious that Bender did not have any actual, non-Claire lunch because he made off with half of Brian’s. And then, much to his horror, demonstrated what he figured life to be like at his house.

The smiley, Ozzy and Harriet-type life he envisioned was nowhere close to the truth, although Brian certainly wished it was. In reality, Life at Big Bri’s House was closer to a modern family drama over a fifties sitcom. Key players included his perpetually incensed mother, welcome mat of a father, annoying little copycat of a sister, and Brian himself, forever caught up in his parents’ lofty expectations of him and his very real need to be *seen*. 

John went on to demonstrate his own home life at Andrew’s challenge. It all came out angry and abusive, perfect for Bender’s image, and Brian questioned whether it was real or not. Andrew did as well, clearly not buying what he was selling…until John rolled up his sleeve in the Sport’s eye line, shouted while knocking some stuff to the ground, and stormed off. 

Brian gazed unseeingly at his thermos full of soup. And spent the next twenty minutes glancing up on the balcony to make sure that he was okay.

Andrew, on the other hand, merely stared at his desk. And hardly took a bite out of his humongous lunch.  
**  
It took nearly forty minutes for Bender to convince himself to come down—not because he was bored and missing the comradery with the others (even though he did) but, eh, his grip was ungluing and his legs were getting tired of being in that weird position. So, he pulled up his big boy pants, climbed down from the staircase, and, mentally retconning the entire discomforting moment, he gleefully exclaimed that he was headed for his locker. 

To his surprise, the others volunteered to go with him. They really must’ve been feeling like shit after his performance-that-wasn’t earlier. 

Slipping past Dick, walking down the hall towards his locker, he knew when Claire sidled up to him without having to look. Damn but her perfume or shampoo or whatever the fuck it was smelled nice. It was like…running in a field of wildflowers or something. In his experience, the popular girls usually stank of some kind of perfume, a chemical-y scent that was nowhere akin to what they were aiming for. But Claire…her scent was natural. Pretty. 

‘Her *scent*? What are you, a werewolf?’ 

John shook off the cobwebs. Being around her—around all of ‘em—was fucking with his head. 

“How do you know where Vernon went?” she asked with plain concern echoing in her voice.

Keeping straight ahead he replied “I don’t."

“Then how do you know when he’ll be back?”

“I don’t.” Now, he turned to regard her. She looked wary, like she was one step away from bolting. The worry in her eyes was, well, “amusing” was one word that came to mind. “Being bad feels pretty good, huh?”

She pursed her lips but otherwise didn’t reply. 

He grinned and walked on ahead of her.

John’s locker, he knew, was a disaster area. He’d never given a shit before but, eh, thinking back on that earlier tidbit-filled conversation with Carl the janitor earlier, he couldn’t help but second-guess, ah, everything in here. From the miniature “guillotine” he’d fashioned in Shop class to the naked photos some of his “considered girls” had sent to him to, yep, what he was reaching for now—his weed.

The rest of the pussies argued about his bad, bad behavior and his bad, bad weed. Whatever, more for him. 

They still had to get back to the library, though, which meant dodging the upwardly mobile Vernon, who was patrolling the halls like a fucking guard dog. And dodging the dude was fucking annoying. 

They were successful, though, until GD Sporto refused to adhere to his directions—Fuck knew he was an expert by now at not only avoiding Vernon, but also the layout of these hallways to *better* avoid Vernon—and, succumbing to peer pressure like an idiot, he followed the other four through the erroneous activities hall.

Where they immediately ran into a barbed gate. Their only way back to the library. 

“Great idea, jagoff,” Bender groused, pathetically beating his fists against the metal. 

“Fuck you!” 

“Fuck *you*!” Again, to his shock, Queenie came to his defense, spitting venom at Sporto and using all that untapped fire behind her eyes to glare at the guy, whom he was still smarting towards for his dismissive disbelief earlier. It was kind of hot. “Why didn’t you listen to John?!”

Damn but he liked how she said his name. All breathy and shit…

…which inspired him to take one for the team, so to speak. John hated to be the sacrificial lamb, but if Sporto, Queenie, Dorko, and Nutso got caught, there would be some splotches on their permanent records, Sporto may lose that damn scholarship, Princess could find herself blocked from the prom (gasp!), the Dork could get a citation, Basketcase…well, she probably wouldn’t care. But fuck it. If he, Bender, got in trouble it’d just be yet more paperwork for Dick and another report to add to his already cumbersome personal file. 

Once he shoved his MJ down Dorko’s UW so Vernon wouldn’t find it and, like, pretend to confiscate it only to use it himself later—John had Vernon’s number—he raced through the halls, knocking over shit, making noise to distract dear ol’ Dick because he was like a fucking dog on July 4th, any sound would send him into a tizzy, and most notably, not so gracefully singing a little ditty he’d seen on a “join the army!” commercial.

“I wanna be an airborne ranger! I wanna live a life of danger!”

‘”Be all that you can be” my asshole.’ His old man was a ‘Nam vet, purposely got himself shot in the leg to come home, and he was still a shithead. The army *had* done wonders for his grandpop, on the other hand. 

John took the opportunity to check out the gymnasium because he very rarely bothered going to Phys. Ed. He shot a few hoops—‘I’ve got skills.’—before Dick dragged him out of there. And promptly announced to Dorko, Queenie, Sporto, and Nutso that they were “going to be without his services for the rest of the day”. 

In the janitors’ closet where Dick dumped him, he basically threatened to, and this was a direct quote, knock his dick in the dirt at some point in the near future. The asshole called his bluff and denounced him as a gutless turd because he refused to take a swing at the guy. John was smarter than that! He could wind up in fucking juvie. 

Hearing the man bearing down on him, though, only surfaced recollections of his own old man. How he “spoke” to him in an akin manner. How he tried to use his height—which didn’t top John’s—to his advantage by looming over him like some kind of monster in kids’ books. How he seemed to discover new and exciting insults to throw at him.

John felt sick, physically ill. Like he’d been punched in the stomach with a pair of GD iron knuckles. But fuck him if he’d allow Vernon to see how he’d affected him. John knew if he didn’t get out of *this* particular vacancy, he’d spend the rest of the afternoon alone with his thoughts—and his father—and slowly drive himself insane. 

Fortunately, he’d used the school’s air vent system before. Shucking his coat and jacket, he *very carefully* climbed inside the ceiling and began to crawl through the vent back toward the library, telling himself a joke to distract himself—both from Vernon and the fact that the ceiling was pretty thin.

He told himself he was doing this because he wanted his dope. Had nothing whatsoever to do with the other four. Queenie in particular. Not at all.

He discovered just how thin the ceiling was hard way, literally. John fell through the damn roof and landed on his ass, which wasn’t exactly pleasant but he’d live. Better than staying in that closet, anyway. 

However, the noise did attract Dick—‘Truly, like a dog on Independence Day’—and John dove under one of the desks. Under *Cherry’s* desk, to be specific. And then his stupid boy brain took over and once Dick was gone, Claire was feebly smacking his back and he proclaimed it all to be a total accident. 

She wasn’t buying that, either. 

Oh, well. At least he had his doobage, which he’d demanded Dorko to remove from his underwear pronto. When Cherry joined him, once more he was surprised—delightedly so. He showed her how to roll, how to inhale, because in spite of what she declared, he had a strong feeling that she’d never “partaken” before and he felt kind of shitty for the stunt back there so the least he could do was teach her how to properly smoke a roach. He totally did not have any other agenda there. 

Nope. 

Then, the Dork came by and ruined it. Sporto, too, eventually. And the dude’s reaction to weed was one Bender had never glimpsed before and hoped to never again. Guy was running around the second floor, doing push-ups and tumbling and shit and Bender wondered if this stuff was laced with something. ‘It better not be for what I paid for it.’ 

This day was turning out to be really fucking weird. A detention from the “Twilight Zone”, and he’d had quite a few to compare it to.  
**  
Allison could only sit back and watch while Shermer’s star wrestler and one of the best students in the school—boys she was coming to know simply as Andy and Brian—sifted through the mess she had quite literally dumped all over them. Yes, she *did* always carry this must *shit* in her bag. “You never know when you may have to jam.” The credo she had been living by ever since she encouraged Eleanor to drop out of a local college here and follow her dreams to California. Her sister had, indeed, jammed, and Allison was not kidding herself that she may need to do so as well in the near future.

Ally warily observed as Andy and Brian rifled through the items she normally kept inside her very large cross-body bag. Snacks, her passport and wallet, car keys, a couple changes of clothes—most of it borrowed from Eleanor; Allison didn’t really *do* pastels—an extra pair of shoes, a comb, and, mortifyingly, tampons. She’d forgotten that she had a few in there, and now this cute boy was studying them. 

Well, hell. Allison set her jaw. She wouldn’t be ashamed of her own body! She was a girl, after all. And if a girl had to jam suddenly, she damn well needed some tampons. 

All of this was necessary for her to eventually flee from her parents. Brian asked her if she was going to be a shopping bag lady and subject herself to the mean Chicago streets because her home life was “unsatisfying”. He didn’t know the half of it. Heck, he didn’t know a quarter of it. “Unsatisfying” was the world’s most profound understatement in her opinion. “Depressing”. “Miserable”. “Frustrating”. “Achingly lonely”. All these were much better suited phrases to describe life with Lenore and Joseph, but she had already poured the contents of her *bag* out in public; the last thing she needed was to burst into tears right now. 

Besides, she didn’t have to leave and live on the streets. She could go anywhere she wanted—and had envisioned doing so many times, usually after Lenore lambasted her over her appearance. “Comb your hair, young lady!” “What is all that kohl around your eyes, Allison?” “Oh, *why* can’t you be more like…like the girls at Eastlake? Honestly, it’s an embarrassment. Why do you think I never bring you?” 

No, Allison would jam…and she would go wherever she wanted. The mountains. Europe. Africa. Israel. Afghanistan. 

It was when Brian suggested that Andy “get in on this”, she, panicking, stuffed her belongings back inside her bag. She did *not* need the star of the school prodding her mind like Hashpipe. She did not need a boy whom she felt kind of sort of attracted to…to pity her. 

“What’s the deal?”

“There’s no ‘deal’, Sporto. Forget it, leave me alone.” 

But still, he came to her. Still, someone cared enough or at least was interested enough to discover the source of her anguish…and he wasn’t being paid to do so, unlike Hashpipe. Unlike every certified therapist or social worker or psychiatrist she had ever seen, and she’d seen quite a few. 

Which was why she found herself calling him back after expressly telling him to go away. She did not really *want* him to go away, a sentiment she didn’t generally harbor. Allison revered her alone time. She couldn’t stand it when people probed into her business. Futzed around her. Tried to get her attention. Unless she was with El, she was perfectly content being alone; it was all she knew. Sitting locked in her bedroom, isolated from the world, dressed in clothes her mother hated and doing things her mother hated like drawing (“What a waste of time!”) or painting (“Truly, Allison, can’t you paint any *nice* pictures? Your efforts are so…dark.”) or listening to her tunes (“What is this *noise*?! This is *not* music. Chopin. Beethoven. Mozart. That is music. This is just…a few silly boys with too long hair screaming into a microphone.”) and generally just *being*, which her mother also hated. 

He returned when she accused him of having problems. “You do everything everyone tells you to do; *that* is a problem!”

“Okay, fine!” he conceded, knowing, although Ally was clearly deflecting, what she spoke was the truth. “But I didn’t dump my purse all over the couch and invite people into *my* problems! Did I? So what’s wrong? What is it? Is it bad? Real bad? Your parents?”

Allison’s guard instantly dropped upon his abrupt change of tone. Where he’d been angry and defensive before, now he was soft-spoken and inquiring. It was the flicker of understanding in his eyes, the sadness around them, that caused her to admit…yes. It *was* her parents. They ignored her. Entirely ignored her. 

Andy nodded, looking as if he’d expected such a response. All he said in reply was “Yeah” but the *way* he said it, the clench of his jaw… He knew, without a doubt, exactly what she was talking about. 

The expectations of your parents. People who were supposed to love you unconditionally…and yet, that love seemed very conditional indeed.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Ok, this and the next part are obviously my attempt at weaving in the events of the movie using any of the "world-building" I introduced in the first story. How that plays out is your opinion xD I had to rewatch the movie for this part (no real hardship) but now I had to watch it *very* closely to make sure I got all the little details.
> 
> Note 2: Heathers reference!
> 
> Note 3: "Uncomfortable", obvs, being a combination of grossed out and intrigued, methinks.
> 
> Note 4: That last scene with Allison...THIS is when Andy really starts to get to know her, I think. It wasn't just "oh she's conventionally attractive now and suddenly the jock wants her". I never got that vibe at all.


	4. Chapter 1.5 (part 2) We Are Not Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last part of the explainer chapter!

Chapter 1.5 (part 2): We Are Not Alone

“NO! I NEVER DID IT!”

If there was one thing, one solitary thing in the world that Claire Standish did not want to admit to, it was her physical love life…or lack thereof. Or *had* been, as she’d just ended up spurting out confirmation of her virginity as the boys taunted her in their bizarre circle thing on the balcony overlooking the first floor. In general, Claire was never lacking in companionship from the opposite sex—at this point, she’d had more “boyfriends” than she could recollect—but her relationships were mainly for public consumption. Either to help her father with whatever he was dabbling in at the moment, get her prying mother off her back, or to simply maintain her own status. Going out with boys like Lonnie Heyboer, a football stud whose position Claire had never bothered to learn, or Vince McAdams on the wrestling team, or Ryan Packard, a senior and the president of the entire student body, had done the intended job of supporting Claire’s powerful position within the A-group. 

And also left her physically underwhelmed. 

Whenever one of those guys tried to take their public persona private and push Claire toward a level she wasn’t comfortable with, she rarely allowed the clumsy pawing and unpracticed kissing to go beyond just that—kissing. One or two had managed to convince her to round second base. But only because, at the time, Claire had found herself lost in her own head. She had no interest in any of…*this*, while *this* seemed to be her friends’ number one concern. They were all losing their virginities and gleefully recapping the experience for their girlfriends in explicit detail. 

Claire could not find it within herself to want to join them. Despite the obvious fact that the boys she dated were…blessed. Physically speaking. 

Shouldn’t there be more to it than that? Just mere looks? 

Shouldn’t she have *some* kind of connection with the guy she’d be remembering forever as the taker of her virginity?

Not according to Benny. Claire’s continued “lack of dick”, as she oh so eloquently put it, was amusing to the Big Bitch on Campus at least and a downright thorn in her side at most. She was forever urging Claire to “just do it already” and make off with some “unknown hottie” in the janitors’ closet, or the back of a van, or an empty classroom—anywhere, really. 

“Honestly, Claire,” Benny would drawl, rolling her eyes. “It’s kind of embarrassing at this point. I mean, you’ve had more boyfriends than any of the rest of us, and you’re still a virgin. I can’t be seen hanging out with a *virgin*.” 

Claire had resolved then and there to do everything in her power to keep her continued virginity a secret.

But peer pressure was peer pressure, and the boys were serving it up like pieces of pie.

And now all of them fucking knew and could easily use the information against her and what was wrong with her?!

Allison’s smile was almost self-deprecating. “I never did it either.”

Claire’s jaw hung open unattractively; Josh would say that she was attracting flies. For the past five minutes, the girl had been going on and on about nailing her shrink and her willingness to do “anything sexual” and her dismissal of respect, only to learn now that it was all a *lie*?!

Oh, hell no!

“You are *such* a *bitch*!” Claire cried, the threat of angry tears welling in her eyes. She was so embarrassed! Her, ahem, “situation” was no one’s business and now it was at least four people’s business and soon it would be *everyone’s* business and the whole school would know that Claire Standish was frigid. “It’s true!” Brian Johnson or Andy Clark would insist with a gleam in their eyes. “I heard it myself in detention with her. Claire’s never had sex, and it shows.” All because Allison Reynolds, she who never talked, had gotten to her. “You did that on purpose just to fuck me over!”

“I would do it, though,” the traitor continued. “If you love someone, it’s okay.”

Claire wanted to punch her. “I can’t believe you; you’re *so* weird. You don’t say anything all day and when you open your mouth…you unload all these ridiculous lies all over me!”

“You’re just angry because she got you to admit to something you didn’t want to admit to,” Andy, knight in fucking shining armor all of a sudden, came to Allison’s defense.

Claire wanted to punch him, too. “Fine, but it’s still pretty bizarre.” 

Andy shrugged. “What’s bizarre? I mean, we’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all.”

Skeptical, Claire cocked her head. How could State Champ all-American Andrew Clark be *bizarre*? He was as socially acceptable as apple pie. “How are you bizarre?”

**  
Andy thought about the question. There were many ways in which he was bizarre. The fact that he insisted on taking a shower second because he was the second oldest. That he’d, technically, wet the bed until he was twelve. He did not like coffee; he preferred tea—and not even fruity tea that was more acceptable and all-American but straight up chamomile or peppermint tea, almost like he was an old-timey English dude reincarnated. He liked Bugs Bunny cartoons but not Daffy Duck. He preferred Hawaiian pizza over pepperoni. Cats scared the shit out of him. 

But none of these tidbits, he didn’t think, were what Claire was looking for. 

“He can’t think for himself,” Allison added softly upon his hesitation. 

She was right. Damn, was she right. He’d always done what people expected, what his *friends* expected. He didn’t actively cut loose on anyone—with the exception of poor Larry—but he did nothing but stand idly by when others did. He played for that scholarship because his old man told him to. He worked out at the crack of dawn because his old man told him to. He drank those gnarly kale smoothies because his old man told him to. 

And he laughed at people behind their backs because his *friends* told him to. 

“She’s right,” he voiced aloud, sighing. Time to come clean. “You know what I did to get in here? I taped Larry Lester’s buns together.”

Claire snickered. Even Bender smirked. In that shallow way, he supposed it sounded kind of funny…to those who did not know the reality behind what he’d done.

“That was you?” Brian demanded, definitely not laughing with the others. 

“Yeah, you know him?”

“Yeah, I know him.”

For some insane reason, it had never occurred to Andy that Larry might have friends that were pissed off on his behalf. But surely he would. Brian was now gazing at him as though he didn’t know him, and Andy felt awful all over again. 

“Then, you know how hairy he is, right? When…when they peeled the tape off, some hair came off. And—and some skin, too.”

Andy could recollect back to that exact moment, his brain winding back to Thursday in the nurse’s office. Standing there wincing, pathetically unable to do shit, whilst Larry Lester screamed in agony as Nurse Heckerling and Coach Mays ripped the adhesive off. It was like the world’s worst waxing appointment. 

The echoes of Larry’s wails of anguish would remain with him for years to come, he knew. And *he* was the sole reason for them.

“Oh, my God,” Claire breathed now, former entertainment now gone completely from her eyes. Good. 

Andy went on to add that he’d done it with his old man in mind, hoping that he’d think he was *cool*, believing he was disappointed Andy had never “cut loose” on anyone like he did in high school all the time. Which only confirmed to him that his father had always been a jerk; it was not a new thing and had been percolating since his teenage years. ‘What the hell did Mom ever see in him in the first place?’ 

Amid the echoes of Larry begging and shrieking, Andy could very plainly discern his old man’s voice in his head. Exactly what his apparition said to set him off. “’Andrew, you have to be *number 1*,” he shouted out loud, tears—both angry and otherwise—eking out of his eyes and trawling down his face. “'We don’t tolerate any losers in this family! Your intensity’s for crap. Win, win, WIN!’” He clenched his fist, veins popping under the skin of his fingers. “You son of a bitch!”

The others glanced down at their laps. Brian had his head in his hands. 

Andy closed his eyes, picturing his father’s snarling face. His too eager eyes. The permanent frown about his lips. He and his coach were basically all he’d known or understood for many years, ever since he expressed an interest in wrestling. “You know, sometimes, I wish my knee would give. And then he could forget all about me.”  
**   
“It’s like me…with—with my grades.”

The other four were staring at him, and Brian had to tamp down the desire to duck his head or flee. He wasn’t used to attention, and when he did get it from his classmates, it was usually because he’d done something embarrassingly amusing. Like wet his pants. Or drop his tray in front of the entire cafeteria. Or ask out a girl and, very publicly, she said no. Or laughed. 

Bidding himself to swallow, Brian forged on ahead. Past the looks, which were less disapproving or entertained now and more just curious. He wasn’t used to curious. “When I look outside myself, kinda, and I see me…I don’t like what I see. I really don’t.”

It was a sentiment he had never dared express to *anyone*. Especially his parents. They’d never understand in a million years. 

Claire cocked her head and asked him why he didn’t like himself. He explained about his ultimate failure, the fucking elephant lamp, the stupid thing whose trunk light wouldn’t go on. The ceramic proof of his downfall. “Even if I ace the rest of the semester, it’s still only a B. Everything’s ruined for me. I thought I was being smart, you know. I’d…take Shop. Such an easy way to maintain my Grade Point Average.” 

It was John, who’d been silent up until now, conspicuously so—the burnout had proven all Saturday that “quiet” wasn’t a part of his vocabulary—and drawled, a distressingly annoyed lilt to his voice, “Why’d you think it’d be easy?”

Brian blinked. He would’ve thought that to be evident. “You see some of the dolts that take Shop?”

“*I* take Shop,” Bender replied bitingly, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes were narrowed in a dangerous expression Brian recognized, and he instantly felt really, really stupid. After all, what *he* considered to be an easy course (and it wasn't even easy!) and what others did were not one in the same. Furthermore, John looked exactly the type who’d be interested in taking a Shop class, working with his hands. It made Brian feel horrible. But his defenses were up, and he was not going to go quietly. Not again. “You must be a fucking idiot.”

Brian was more bemused than insulted, however. He was used to people calling him names. “I’m an idiot because I can’t make a lamp?”

“No, you’re a genius because you can’t make a lamp.” 

The resulting argument—if it could even be called that—revolved around light and trigonometry, and Claire once again had to intervene. She was turning out to be the peacekeeper of the group, the one with the most head on her shoulders, and that, too, surprised Brian. He would not have pegged the Princess as someone who gave a crap either way who quarreled with whom, unless it was with her. “Okay, so neither one of you is any better than the other one.” 

“I can write with my toes!” Allison interjected suddenly, and Brian whipped around to face her. Ducking her head a little, she added, “I can also eat. Brush my teeth—“

“With your *feet*?! Claire demanded, eyes wide. 

In return, Allison smirked slightly, one Brian was beginning to identify as sly. “Play ‘Heart and Soul’ on the piano.” 

Claire asked Andy what he could do, and, bashfully, he admitted that he could tape all their buns together. 

But John, of course, just wanted to know what Claire could do. 

Brian did not see this conversation ending well. At all.  
**   
John was not okay.

It had started this morning with his ma, newly off the wagon and luxuriating in liters of vodka and tubes of paracetamol that were labeled and completely legitimate. Years ago, Laura Bender had pulled her spine, an accident whilst moving furniture, and the doctor prescribed her Percocet. Said doctor kept renewing the prescription every few months despite Laura not needing it anymore and thus commenced her addiction. His ma didn’t even need to find a dealer; she had a genuine prescription for that shit. 

Lo how many times she’d tried, his ma would always fail at sobriety. He couldn’t entirely blame *her* exactly; drugs were predominant in his neighborhood. The gangs were always selling something. That, plus the stress of living with his old man… It couldn’t be easy. But that didn’t stop John from having hope. Hope---a truly human emotion that kept you going despite everything falling down around you like a besieged city and all you could do was watch. 

Like an *idiot*, he’d gotten those hopes up when his ma forsook the pills and the alcohol and decided to go cold turkey…and it’d worked. For seven months, she was his mother again. She cared about where he went, wanted to know what time he’d be home, criticized his hair and his apparel—she was his mom. 

Until fucking last week when she succumbed to the intense urge to binge following his father, lost in an all-consuming fire of rage after he lost money playing Blackjack down at the Fish Tank, took his ire out on her while John wasn’t there to interfere. Calling her a slut, a whore, accusing her of cheating, as he habitually did when the man himself was, in fact, being unfaithful. 

Shit, he charged her of cheating with everyone from his brother to the mailman. 

This morning, she’d been lulled out in a vodka-and-Perco coma and John kept trying and trying to wake her up. When she did so, she immediately got angry and, in a burst of strength he hadn’t known her capable of, kicked him into a wall. He bled, his ma briefly sobered up, and ushered him into the bathroom crying and stuttering apologies over and over again. It took a damn hour for the cut to clot. 

With that happy recollection playing on repeat in his head and the earlier one of the Sport poo-pooing his claims of abuse, John found himself embroiled in one of those glutinous clouds of anger and hatred. They came on suddenly, and once they did, it was damn near impossible to climb out of them. 

Hearing these stories—Sporto getting in deep for taping some dork’s butt cheeks together, the Brainiac upset because Mr. Kravitz had given him an F (ooh, not an F!), Claire and her fucking earrings that were worth more than his life—only stoked his ire. Worried about shit that John would kill, literally pop someone, to be his major issue in life. When he woke up every morning to heartlessness at the least and physical rage at the most. And these idiots were crying about a fucking F?

His building attraction to a chick who represented everything ever denied him in life was inwardly killing him, too. What the hell was wrong with him? She was a *richie* and he hated richies with a burning passion. Their ability to get out of any situation simply because they had money. Throwing cash at a problem instead of facing it head-on. Walking around town like they were fucking gods. He loathed them…and he loathed her. 

Except he didn’t, and he hated *that*, too. 

John’s fingers curled into twin fists, his skin brushing the cracked leather—faux leather, not even real leather because he damn well couldn’t afford it—of his gloves. Which he had to wear to hide the scars on his palms, care of his dad burning the hell out of them. 

They were all going around sharing what they could do—Basketcase and her weird feet thing; Sporto and being able to tape all their buns together—but John just wanted to know what pampered princess Claire Standish could do. Everybody could do something, in spite of her dismissal that she couldn’t do anything. 

She tipped her red head back and smiled, those luscious lips of hers spreading from cheek to cheek, and John grew even angrier. She was so fucking beautiful and he had no chance because he couldn’t afford to take her to fancy restaurants or buy her shit… 

Who the hell did she think she was? 

Who the hell did he think *he* was?!

“There’s one thing I can do,” she mused, then quickly shook her head. “No, forget it, it’s way too embarrassing.”

John was not going to let her off so easily. No fucking way. “You ever see ‘Wild Kingdom’? That guy’s been doing that show for like thirty years.” If Marlin Perkins could spend thirty years pontificating on the mating habits of, like, the African antelope and the blue crab of the Danube, surely she could share what was so damn “embarrassing”. 

She pursed those lips that he found so irresistible. “Okay.” Then pointed right at him. “But you have to swear to God you won’t laugh.”

John rolled his eyes and crossed himself. Then observed as she stuck her lipstick in her bra and applied it to those amazing lips. 

‘Wow. So embarrassing.’ 

The others were laughing and clapping as though she’d just scaled Mt. Everest, and John couldn’t take it anymore. He was encumbered by his own rage at his parents and at Andy and at his stupid attraction to her. When he joined in the clapping, it was slow and sarcastic. “That’s great, Claire. My entire image of you is blown.” 

It was not. It was just a stupid party trick. But fuck him if he cared. 

Basketcase called him a shit. Sporto a filthy punk. John had heard worse. Usually, from his own father. 

When Claire cried that she had just as many feelings as he did and he fucking hurt her poor little sensibilities, John saw red. Literally. For a brief instance, his world was awash in nothing but fiery tones. He called her pathetic, and to never, fucking *ever*, compare herself to him. She got everything and he got *shit*…and why? Because her old man got lucky and amassed a fortune twenty years ago? Because she was popular? Because she was the girl all the guys wanted to date and the girls wanted to be?

He hated himself. He hated his life. He hated her. 

“The school would probably shut down if *you* didn’t show up,” he spat, feeling his tongue spitting words before his brain could fully calculate them. “’Queenie isn’t here!’ I like those earrings, Claire.” 

All the while, she was telling him to shut up. He barely listened. 

“Did you work for the money for those earrings? Or did your daddy buy them for you?” 

Fucking diamond stud earrings that would’ve cost more than this entire library. 

He bet they were a Christmas gift, a package for the jewel of the Standish family to tear into around the professionally decorated Christmas tree and uncaringly push aside as she opened another one. Yet, for him, Christmas had always been hell. His old man would get rip-roaring drunk, usually on alcoholic eggnog, and his ma would lock herself in the bedroom watching lame holiday movies and debating with herself over whether to call her parents—she never did. 

This past Christmas had been a real boon in the ol’ Bender household. His old man actually got him a gift this year—a carton of cigarettes. Marlboros, not even his preferred brand. In his mind’s eye, he saw his father grip the front of his shirt, chuckle drunkenly, and exclaim, “Hey, smoke up, Johnny!” as his ma looked on, clutching her own present to her chest—a frigging solid gold tennis bracelet, lo his ma had never played tennis. His father’s attempt at “making up” after he’d smacked her the day before. This was how they functioned. Jake would do something shitty or say something shitty to hurt Laura, he’d apologize with a little gift, she’d glow and forgive him until he did it all again, rinse, repeat. And there John was, forever caught in the middle. 

Why should the girl before him get a fucking pair of diamond stud earrings…and he got crappy vending machine cigarettes? Because she was rich? No, because her old man was rich. It wasn’t fucking right; it wasn’t fucking fair. 

John worked his ass off to get what he wanted—spending the whole summer as a giant walking hamburger to afford the three-hundred-dollar price tag on the new Nintendo game system, for one. And that was *without* any games, just the fucking system. Two bucks an hour to walk up and down the road handing out flyers for Burger Chef. 

All for one frigging thing he’d desperately wanted. And *she* got everything handed to her without blinking. Did she appreciate any of it?

“So go home and cry to your daddy, don’t cry here, okay?”

There was a lull, punctuated only by Claire’s sniffles. And as the cloud faded, John instantly felt contrite, though fuck him if he would ever admit it. He’d made this girl, whom he was interested in, cry, and all because he was pissed about his ma and his old man and the whole fucking unfairness of the world. None of it was Claire’s fault, really; it just *was*, unfair or not. 

Hadn’t his ma always taught him to respect women? Whether he was into them or not? And here, he’d gone off on this unsuspecting girl for no GD reason. John wanted to take back his words, no matter how accurate they were, as soon as they were out of his mouth. Reach out to her. Apologize. Something. But he just…couldn’t. 

“My God,” Sporto breathed, breaking the pregnant pause. “Are we gonna be like our parents?”

The notion of turning into his dad, or even his ma, had Bender feeling physically ill. It was his worst nightmare. Becoming that asshole. And what scared him most of all was that it was inevitable. 

“Not me,” Claire answered, then looked directly in his eyes. “*Ever*.”

John nodded. Taking her proclamation for what it was worth. It was the least he could do. 

As if reading his mind, Basketcase added, “It’s unavoidable. It just happens.”

“What happens?” Queenie asked, voice still strained with tears. That *he* had put there. 

“When you grow up,” Basketcase began, glancing around the circle, meeting the eyes of each one of them. “Your heart dies.”

John scoffed. “Who cares?” he bit, even though he cared very, very much. 

“I care.” 

So did he. Holy shit, so did he.   
**  
“…but on Monday, wh—what happens?”

It was up to Brian to voice the question out loud, the one that had been on his mind for hours. He considered them all his friends now, and he was glad Andy had confirmed he wasn’t wrong. The thought of never speaking to any of the four again made his heart hurt. His head hurt. But, somehow, he wasn’t the least bit surprised when Claire, brutally honest, said— 

“I don’t think so.” 

Andy shot her a glare. “That’s a real nice attitude, Claire.”

“Oh, be honest, Andy!” the Princess exclaimed, and Brian felt his heart dropping more and more by the second. “If Brian came up to you in the hall on Monday, what would you do? Imagine it. You’re there with all the Sports. You know exactly what you’d do. You’d say hi to his face then, when he left, cut him all up so your friends didn’t think you actually liked him.” 

Brian could envision the scenario perfectly—him, tentatively walking up to Andy, surrounded on all sides by his so-called “friends”, all in letterman’s jackets with huge, broad shoulders. He’d say hi, try to strike up a conversation. And as soon as he left, Andy would turn to his friends and laughingly deride him. 

Andy, however, proclaimed “No way!” although Brian noted the hesitation. 

Were he and Allison just better people than the exalted A-group? The weirdos? The freaks? The outsiders no one gave a shit about? 

“Your friends wouldn’t mind because they look up to us.”

And that was when Brian broke. His friends did *not* fucking look up to the popular crowd; they despised them. The A-group and all their vainglorious arrogance. The way they held themselves, like they were gods among the rest of the student body. Benny Hanson was the worst of all of them, and that was indeed saying something. Brian’d had his share of run-ins with the blonde harridan. 

Why the hell would he and his friends look up to the A-group? They were all shallow assholes. 

When Brian called Claire conceited, she, crying, defended herself. “I’m not saying it to be conceited! I hate it. I hate having to go along with everything my friends say!” 

And then she alleged that he didn’t understand pressure and he told her to fuck herself. He was here *because* of pressure—pressure to obtain good grades in every subject, pressure to get into an elite university, pressure to please his parents, pressure to *be*. Brian knew all about pressure. He’d stashed a gun in his locker to escape from the damn pressure.

“It was a handgun?” Allison asked, looking truly concerned for him. It was…different. 

“No,” Brian admitted, not meeting her eyes. “It was a flare gun. It went off in my locker.”

“Really?” Andy started laughing, and soon enough, they were all laughing because he had stashed a flare gun in his locker and it’d gone off. Destroyed everything, including that fucking ceramic elephant lamp. 

Then, Allison told them all she didn’t even *need* to be in detention today; she’d just had nothing better to do. And their laughter increased. 

Brian couldn’t remember the last time he’d just let go and laughed with friends.   
**  
All day, Andy had felt this undeniable pull toward Allison Reynolds—the very girl everyone at Shermer labeled a freak, a weirdo.

A basketcase. 

He also understood her. He knew that desire to get away, just fuck all of it—his wrestling career, the full ride—and vanish. It’d certainly piss his father off. Would he even care if he disappeared? Would it make a difference? Andy didn’t even know if he was still the man’s son. He was his ticket, his trophy, his all-star athlete he could boast about around the dinner table or to his coworkers. He was his father’s favorite toy. 

Parents had the capacity to utterly ruin you. 

And Andy had gazed into Allison’s luminous dark eyes and gleaned a knowledge far beyond her sixteen years. 

She was beautiful, but in a completely different way from the girls he’d dated in the past. Blonde and athletic, cheerleader types, the kind of girls Claire hung around with. The kind of girls that a guy like Andy was expected to date. 

He was so, so fucking tired of trying to live up to everyone else’s expectations but his own. 

Allison Reynolds—dark, mysterious, beautifully broken. 

So, when Allison Reynolds emerged from the music room with her bushel of hair pushed back and the black shit outlining her eyes missing and her waist defined, Andy about fell off the banister he’d been balancing on. She was no longer hiding…and she was stunning. 

“What happened to you?” he asked in a daze.

Allison was immediately defensive. “Why? Claire did it.” 

He was still gawking at her, this lovely creature, this butterfly emerging from her cocoon, like he’d never seen anything more beautiful. 

When Allison asked him what was wrong, he almost laughed. Because nothing was wrong; everything was right. He could *see* her. Finally. 

And it was good.  
**  
Claire Standish didn’t know what the hell she was doing. 

Against every muscle, every nerve ending, every echo of good judgment in her bones, she volunteered to let John out of his closet jail. As she trod the short trek from the library to the janitors’ closet, her brain was screaming at her. ‘He’s volatile. He’s reckless. He can be a disgusting pig. He made you *cry*.'

And yet, Claire’s feet continued walking. 

Yes, he could be *really* rough around the edges. Like, porcupine rough. But…he was also the only boy, hell, the only *person*, who had ever dared to question her. To challenge her. To not just…robotically agree with everything she did or said. Claire was used to being surrounded by a cavalcade of Yes Men, just like her father. They backed up whatever she did with strained smiles and nods of approval and “Yes, Claire, that was good thinking! Of *course* two plus two equals five!” No matter what she proclaimed, she was always right. She supposed she had sort of gotten used to that. 

Now, here was this guy who gave no fucks, commenced battles and took no prisoners, deflected every barb thrown at him, even by Vernon. 

This guy who’d held up a mirror to her, and for the first time in her life, she didn’t entirely like what she saw in the reflection. 

‘Is that really how other people see me?’ She didn’t want to be known as the bitch. But he was right. She did shitty things to people, she said shitty things about people, she stood back whilst the likes of Benny Hanson proceeded to be shitty to whomever happened in her vicinity she did not consider “worthy”. 

And she, Claire, had allowed it all to happen. She hadn’t *said* anything. She hadn’t *done* anything. She knew it was wrong, all wrong, how the A-group treated people. Yet, she did nothing to curb the behavior. 

The student body didn’t *look up* to them. They were just placed on a pedestal because of their parents’ tax brackets. 

Putting it like that, the notion was quite laughable. ‘I’m popular because my dad makes a lot of money.’ 

Did people truly “love her so much at this school”…or were they merely afraid to contradict her?

Three years. Claire had been here for nearly three years. And this was the first time she was considering these answers. 

All because one boy had brought her into reality. 

If he hadn’t been here today, would she have continued to go blindly forward, allowing her “friends” to make decisions for her? To treat their classmates horridly? To walk like gods when the whole school ached to see them thrown into the abyss? 

She didn’t know. 

‘Probably,’ Claire ruminated as her feet continued to take her to down the hall, turn left at the fire hydrant, and there it was—the janitors’ closet. She’d never given any thought to this, ahem, area of Shermer High before, but now, she cringed. It looked so *small* from the outside, and he was stuck in there. Trapped like a caged bird. 

The last thing John Bender was, was a caged bird. He was a guy who needed to fly. 

Taking a deep breath, ignoring her brain screaming at her, Claire hesitantly grasped the doorknob, flicked the lock, and stepped inside the cluttered closet. John, who’d been staring off into space, perked his head up when he noticed her, eyes widening, clearly not expecting her presence. The surprise quickly melted away, however, to be replaced with that same smartass smirk she was growing quite used to. Twin dimples appeared in his cheeks as his lips stretched, and Claire felt her heart fluttering. She’d never noticed those before. He really was a good-looking guy, in an unkept sort of way. Hair was too long and uneven, as if he’d cut it himself with a knife or something. Eyebrows weren’t totally tamed. Not to mention, his sense of style *really* wasn’t one she was used to…but he had one, unlike, say, Brian. It was wild, all those layers. It screamed that he was undomesticated. Uncultured. 

He was so not like the boys she knew, with their popped polo shirts, sweater vests, and too much gel in their hair. Claire liked it…a lot. 

“You lost?” he queried, arms crossed over his chest.

Grinning, matching his smirk with one of her own, Claire leaned back against the wooden door. 

“Nope,” she replied, walking further into the space. Recollecting his wallet full of “considered girls”, she put a little wiggle in her hips. Proving that she could boast just as much as any of those girls, thank you very much. She may have been a virgin but she wasn’t a Puritan. Claire knew how to use what she had. 

“You sure?” he asked warily, eyeing her approach.

Claire almost felt naked under his gaze. The difference was…now, that excited her rather than repelled her. She had been an object of desire before, for many boys, borne mainly out of trivialization. She was their trophy, their Ultimate Goal, their own Madonna. She was a Standish and thus an essential match for the Prestons and Bradleys and Tuckers of Shermer. 

On the other hand, to feel *truly* desired, not because of who her father was but because of who *she* was, just Claire, not Claire Standish…she really rather liked that feeling. 

Claire nodded and, his hand braced against the wall, softly pressed her lips against the side of his neck, something that she’d been wanting to do for hours but refused to admit so to herself. In response, John gawped at her, shocked, and asked in a patently astonished tone why she’d done that. 

Claire smiled. “Because I knew you wouldn’t.” 

John bobbed his head and said, “Remember how you said your parents use you to get back at each other? Wouldn’t I be *outstanding* in that capacity?”

Yes. He really would. Yet, that wasn’t why Claire was here, standing barefaced in this closet. 

She asked him if he was truly disgusted about her lipstick-bra trick, and he nodded and said “No.” 

Claire’s beam broadened. 

In the hallway, they bid farewell to Carl the janitor, John making certain to tell him that he’d see him next Saturday. And the Saturday after that. And after that. And after that…

He walked her to her father’s car, the same gleaming BMW. And before she could think, Claire unsnapped one of the diamond studs in her earlobe—the ones worth a couple hundred dollars—and placed it in his palm. 

When he kissed her, surprisingly slow and gentle, her toes curled in her boots. She’d never experienced a reaction like that to lips brushing against hers. An electric spark zinged at the base of her spine, and her lips tingled as she pulled away from his. 

She’d definitely never had *that* reaction before.

Claire left John standing there bemused and bewildered, but (hopefully) in a good way. Watching him out of her father’s car window, he gawked at her as though he’d never seen her before.   
**  
Allison hadn’t kissed many boys before. 

Her first occurred when she was eleven playing a game of truth or dare at a sleepover she’d inexplicably been invited to. The boy in question was Doug Hanson, the cousin of one Benny Hanson and two of the three boys in attendance. His breath smelled of recently consumed Cheetos, his tongue was all over her mouth, in and out like a salamander, and he had stunk of a mixture of cologne and body odor. She ended up washing her mouth out with the nearest mouthwash available, a can of flat orange soda. 

Since then, she had only kissed one other boy, some popular football stud douchebag who publicly made a bet with his friends in the cafeteria that “the freak girl” wouldn’t kiss him. She’d proven him wrong. 

Neither of those held a candle to the kiss she shared with Andy Clark. 

It was soft and closed-mouthed, but it was perfect, a moment captured in time Allison would remember for the rest of her life. She knew it to be true. 

When she backed away toward Joseph’s Cadillac, smirking, Andy’s wrestling patch in hand, she felt his eyes following her long after they parted. 

In the driver’s seat of the Caddy, Joseph Reynolds awkwardly cleared his throat. “Allison. Who was *that*?”

So startled that her father was actually deigning to speak to her, Allison—newly made over and *seen*--jumped in the passenger’s side, but didn’t bother turning to regard the man. Instead, she watched as Andy climbed into his own father’s truck, his gaze still lingering on her even in the vehicle. 

“Just a boy” was all she said. Although she knew, instinctively, that Andy wasn’t, and wouldn’t be, just *some boy*. Not to her. 

Joseph coughed once again as he turned the Caddy onto the highway. “Er, do I need to have a talk with this boy?”

Her father. Attempting to act like a real parent for once. 

Allison shook her head. “No, Dad.” 

The tension seeped out of Joseph’s shoulders. There. Now he had her permission to return to pretending that she didn’t exist. 

He and Lenore might treat her as a ghost, an annoyance, a burden, but today, she’d been seen. Truly seen. Andy had glimpsed through her and recognized the real Allison that lay beneath the layers of black folds. 

And that was enough.  
**  
Brian could not have been more pleased with himself, and with the result of the assignment Vernon had given them. 

Standing alone in the library, he reread his masterpiece one more time—

‘Dear Mr. Vernon,  
We accept that we had to sacrifice a Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. For what we did *was* wrong. But we think you’re crazy for making us write an essay telling you who we think we are. I mean, you see us as you want to see us, in the simplest terms, the most convenient definitions. We’ve found out that each of us is a Brain, an Athlete, a Basketcase, a Princess, and a Criminal.  
Sincerely yours,  
The Breakfast Club’

\--before sheathing the flimsy piece of lined paper (such a delicate emblem that held such profound words) in an ochre-colored envelope, scrawling “Vice Principal Vernon” on the cover with a Sharpie, and leaving it on the desk earlier shared by Claire and Andy. 

Shucking on his coat and hat, Brian Johnson hefted his knapsack over his shoulder—an erroneous burden today, one filled with the textbooks he hadn’t perused at his mother’s insistence—and started for the library door, the one that wouldn’t stay open once the screw to the jamb “fell out because the world’s an imperfect place”. 

Smirking once, his braces gleaming in the florescent light of the expansive room, he glanced one more time into the vast emptiness—and the less-than-1,000-words letter protectively encased in its envelope, resting on the desk—and began following the others outside. 

Ralph picked him up on his way home from work, dressed in his usual oxford and trousers, eyes shielded behind wire-rim glasses. When Brian climbed inside the idling car, Ralph Johnson—comparably more easygoing than his wife—wordlessly pulled the vehicle out of the lot, and strained his neck a few times peeking at his son. 

They were more than halfway home to his boring suburban house in a nondescript Shermer neighborhood before the man haltingly spoke. 

“Get any work done today, Brian?”

Brian Johnson, staring out the car window, allowed the ends of his lips to tick in an ironic ghost of a smile only he—and the other four members of the Breakfast Club—could and would ever understand.   
“Yeah, Dad,” he affirmed. “I really did.”

Ralph nodded once. “Good…good.” 

And the car drove on.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Like I said, I had to watch the movie *very* closely for this. It turned out to not be entirely necessary because I know the dialogue by heart. Not sure if that's impressive or sad.
> 
> Note 2: That is a very 80s thing, to have your Percocet prescription renewed over and over without doctor interference. Now with the Opioid War, you can't get shit. I, personally, am not even on opioids but a different kind of pain medication, a script that is like a step above Tylenol, and I still have a hard time getting anyone to renew it. Been on that shit for 12 years. 
> 
> Note 3: I read somewhere that those who are currently being unfaithful tend to accuse their partners of cheating more often. Like, they get paranoid. I think I read that in a magazine.
> 
> Note 4: We used to watch "Wild Kingdom" reruns in my science classes in school. On that old roll-away TV. They were SO 80s, but it was rare we were shown anything made past 1985 lol public schools
> 
> Note 5: Minimum wage back in the 80s was something around two bucks, which would be worth only 5 dollars now. I made more working at a fast food restaurant at sixteen. 
> 
> Note 6: lol. Allison's first kiss was my first kiss. Right down to the name--Doug. I was 11, it was a slumber party at my friend's house, we played truth or dare, and I was dared to lay one on Doug, this boy I'd known for all of fifteen minutes. His breath stunk of Cheetos and Pepsi.


	5. Chapter 2: Call Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damnit, AO3 coughed and I lost everything on here. Luckily, I have everything backed up on Word but this thing is being a butthole.

Chapter 2: Call Me

Sunday, March 25, 1984:

Brian Johnson couldn’t get his damn homework done. 

Part of his punishment for the so-called “little stunt”, as his mother called it, with the flare gun and his destroyed locker and, heh, yesterday’s eight-hour long detention that had started off so dreadfully but ended…pretty frigging cool was to complete the assignments he’d missed while he’d been “locked in a vacancy” unable to “figure out a way to study”, as Mercedes Johnson had so kindly suggested yesterday morning…while babysitting his not yet six-year-old sister, Mary. Whilst his parents cavorted around Chicago on a Date Night. And that was only part of his punishment! 

The little B-R-A-T kept flouncing in here, inside his room, and dodging back out when he managed to scramble out of his desk chair, giggling all the while. She may have only been five (and *three quarters*), but she was damn cunning; she knew *exactly* what she was doing. Mary was Mommy’s little spy, ascertaining that he was actually doing his work and not, like, goofing off with his Atari or taking a much-needed break to watch “Star Wars” for the nth time while also annoying the crap out of him. For Mary, it was win-win. 

Now, here he was, it was close to nine P.M., he was gripping his puff of red-blond hair and re-reading the same paragraph in his “To the Stars: Intro to Astrophysics” text until the words began to have no meaning. He couldn’t concentrate. He’d be mid-sentence and then his mind would wander and he’d ponder what would happen on Monday with the four newfound friends from all different walks of life he’d found himself, over the course of eight short hours, growing more and more connected to than people he’d known for years. 

But, the question was, would they even acknowledge his existence come tomorrow?

Allison would, he knew that. She had nothing to lose. No “friends” that would goggle and shun her if she dared speak to a lowly “Brain” like him. But the others? Andy had claimed he wouldn’t—“No way” were his exact words—but when Claire laid the reality out for him…being surrounded by all the other Sports… Would he really say hello to his face and then cut him all up to his fellow Athletes so they wouldn’t think he really liked him? Would Andy really do that to him? 

And then there was John. Bender was kind of…a wild card. He wasn’t *traditionally* popular or anything like that, but he surely did have a following amongst the other “wasteoids” at school. And he didn’t even mean other burnouts, either. Just…guys (or girls) who didn’t totally *fit*. Really, people like Allison. Alternative types. Maybe guys who wore their hair a bit too long, or up in a Mohawk. Girls with piercings. They all liked to listen to Van Halen and Iron Maiden. Wore lots of leather and ripped everything. Smoked out in the quad. Skipped class. That type. Brian had *seen* that type before. Heck, he’d seen John Bender before, many times. It was impossible to miss the guy; he was infamous around the halls of Shermer. Vice Principal Vernon’s nemesis. Forever getting into trouble for pulling pranks. Yanking the fire alarm. Planting Ex-Lax in Vernon’s coffee. Stealing Mr. Kinsley’s toupee and sending it up the flagpole. Bender didn’t seem the kind to give a care one iota either way about “What would people *say*” and he *had* called Claire a bitch for suggesting that reputation mattered above all things but…saying and doing were two different animals. Two *very* different animals. 

Speaking of the Princess…

Now, *she* was the most likely to spurn him, even if the others did not. She’d basically said she would, hadn’t she? When they were all in that circle up on the balcony…thing. Baring their souls. Brian just about to bare *his* soul. And she threw it back in his face… Just thinking back on that moment made him so angry. But then, when Bender had called her out, for being a bitch, for being a snob, a hypocrite, for knowing how shitty her behavior would be, for how shitty her behavior already *was*, sort of holding up a mirror to her own façade, and she broke down…she *did* look quite upset. And…even after that, she *had* gone to let the guy out of his closet dungeon. And kissed him. Brian hadn’t missed *that*. He’d pretended to, for propriety’s sake. But he’d seen it, all right. When his dad was driving them both out of the lot. Claire had given John something, then kissed him—right in front of her father. Wonder how Mr. Standish felt about *that*. 

Well. That certainly wasn’t his business. He had no designs on Claire, after all. ‘I mean, she’s hot and all but…’ First of all, she seemed pretty high maintenance and he wasn’t about that. Second of all, he was *pretty* sure, at this point, that Bender would kill him. Or at least maim him dearly. He wasn’t about that either. 

Ahem. Anyway. Maybe that had been enough to…change her mind? 

Maybe. 

Brian glanced down at “To the Stars” for the umpteenth time. The textbook was open to pages 115-116—as it had been for the past hour. Groaning, he smacked his head atop the desk, using the open book as a pillow—

\--just as Mary danced inside his bedroom…again, humming the theme from “2001: A Space Odyssey” for some reason only known to her, dressed now in a poufy pink tutu over her blue jogging suit. “Briannnn,” she sang, pirouetting. “You’re supposed to be workinggggggggg.” 

The Number 2 pencil in Brian’s fingers snapped as his features contorted in ireful annoyance. Slowly, his head turned over his desk chair to regard his careless sister. “I *was*, but I can’t get any *work* done with you *interrupting*, Mary!” Funny how his stutter all but disappeared when he was pissed.

Not technically accurate, but whatever. 

Mary remained unmoved. She continued to pirouette and plie to music only she could hear, then danced over to Brian’s desk and peered down at the open text. Wrinkling her forehead, she unthinkingly flipped over the tome to read the cover, effectively losing Brian’s place. “’In-tr-o to As-tr-o-ph-ys-is-cks’. What’s that?”

Frustrated, Brian threw his arms in the air. “It’s a—adult stuff!” Not that he was, technically, an adult. Yet. Soon enough, soon enough. Taking a deep breath, Brian bid himself calm down. Just like Mr. Hashimoto advised in those mandatory sessions with the guidance counselor following the “little stunt”; he had another one coming up on Tuesday. Deep breaths. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. “Look, I have to finish this. But when I’m done, I’ll…make you a bowl of ice cream. Okay?”

Mary grinned a gap-toothed smile. “I think we have Cookies N’ Cream!” 

‘We do? Sweet.’ “Kay, g—good. Fine. Cook--cookies N’ Cream it is. With hot fudge. And whipped cream. And a cherry on top!” 

His sister clapped with glee. “Sprinkles?!”

“S—Sure, whatever you want.” ‘You both left me here with her; you deal with the consequences.’ If Mary wouldn’t sleep tonight, it’d be his parents’ problem. 

“Yay!” Brian gawped as Mary embraced him around his middle and hopped off, bounded out of his room and down the stairs. He heard the theme music to “Clifford: The Big Red Dog” somewhere in the nearby distance.

Then, and only when she was settled elsewhere, he sank back down at his desk chair and tried to resume his homework. 

He really did. 

Try, that is.  
**  
“CAROL! WHERE THE HELL DIDYA PUT THE KETCHUP?! YOU KNOW I WON’T EAT FRIES WIT’OUT KETCHUP!”

“DAMNIT, TIM! I TOLD YA! IT’S ON THE DOOR OF THE FRIDGE!”

Rolling his blue eyes, Andy turned the sound up on his Sony from where he lay, head braced against the pillows, knees pointed to the ceiling, on his slightly out-of-date spring mattress on his too-small twin bed in his too-small house in the Everything Else—the sort of middle-middle-class area of Shermer, the neighborhood that was closest to the high school, and the one that held everything a town needed to thrive within walking distance. A grocery store. A pet shop. A police station. The hospital, Shermer General, where his mom worked as an RN. A bunch of independent doctors’ practices. A record store. A hardware store. A Home Depot. A Woolworth’s. A Subway (as in the sandwich shop, not the cool underground train stations like New York and Chicago had; Shermer wasn’t that big…or hip…or anything). Couple of car garages. 

“CAROL! I DON’T SEE IT! I DON’T SEE THE KETCHUP!”

“*TIM*! IT’S IN THE *DOOR*, I SAID! NEXT TO THE SAUERKRAUT! GOOD LORD!” 

Shaking his head, Andy upped the volume some more. Why his parents were even still together, he had no idea. They constantly bickered, and didn’t often come to a stalemate like Claire’s parents did. Their arguments tended to end one of two ways: either in tears (Carol’s, generally) or someone storming out of the house (usually Tim--*usually*). Andy and his brothers—except Travis, the baby of the family; he was much too young to fully understand the machinations of the Tim and Carol Show—were forever trying (hoping) to get their mom to leave their dad, screw that “Parent Trap” nonsense. But Carol was steadfast. She kept hoping that Tim would revert back to the man she’d married. And she refused to leave him “for the young ones’ sakes”, or so she said. Which was bullshit. Even second youngest, Kyle, all of ten, was entirely supportive of Mom leaving Dad. 

“THIS AIN’T HEINZ! I TOLD YA TO GET HEINZ!”

“ALL THE STORE HAD WAS GENERIC! SORRY! JEEZ!”

Grunting, Andy pressed on the “volume up” button and kept pressing it until that glowing green bar on the screen wouldn’t go any higher. Was it him or were his folks becoming louder? Like…their vocal cords were somehow *adapting* to constantly using shouting as their preferred form of communication betwixt each other. 

The Sport reached for his Walkman on the nearby bedside table and shoved his headphones over his ears. Upon pressing play, the familiar not so dulcet tones of Aerosmith flooded his conscious mind, and he sighed in relief. 

“UGH. THIS DOESN’T TASTE AS GOOD!”

“I CAN’T HELP THAT, TIM!”

Andy pressed the headphones closer to his ears. ‘What kind of Chicagoan likes *ketchup* anyway?’ he grunted disingenuously, picturing himself running downstairs and taping his *father’s* buns together for the umpteenth time. Then, he considered Bender, John Bender, whom he had truly met yesterday during detention, and he bit his lip. He supposed he should be grateful, at the very least, that Tim didn’t put his hands on his wife, or his sons, in a non-“coaching” capacity. 

Considering Bender still made him feel like shit. For calling his bluff, especially so publicly. For embarrassing him. Damn, for not believing him in the first place. And that burn scar on his arm…

Andy shuddered and pumped up the volume on his Walkman. 

Reaching for the phone and the school directory he kept on the bedside table beside it at once, he intended on calling the dude, see how he was doing, formally apologize for…being an ass? Maybe? He never really had. Alas, the Sport’s fingers seemed to have minds all their own, for they entirely skipped past the Bs and didn’t cease thumbing until they reached the Rs, then the REs, then the REYs and there was only one REY in the junior class. 

Reynolds, Allison Marie  
18 Baron Drive  
(224) 555-0398

‘I can’t believe this thing lists both every student’s address *and* phone number.’ Seemed kind of unsafe. Like an easy-bake recipe for would-be stalkers. 

Andy felt an unbidden smile form across his lips as a picture of Allison, pre and post Claire-over, overloaded his mind. She’d been so subtly beautiful pre-makeover, with her thick, dark hair and her crystal clear white skin; it had taken some time for him to even notice, what with her hiding in her large coat and her face concealed behind her curtain of hair. But notice he had! As the day wore on, she broke out of her shell, and her personality began to shine through. Allison Reynolds—actually pretty…*sassy*. Defensive, certainly. But funny! Okay, a bit of a compulsive liar by her own admission but an entertaining one, for sure. A gorgeous one. All day yesterday, there had just been that *something* about her…

‘Beautiful stranger’. 

He was drawn to her like a damn cat to a bowl of freshly poured cream. Or something like that.

And then, Allison had allowed Claire to go all Claire on her and knocked his socks off. 

Stunning. In a totally understated way. The end result of that Claire-over was like…Allison—Ally—was finally revealed. She was no longer hiding. No more gigantic coat. No more magic carpet of hair. No more black shit. Just…Allison. And Allison was a *babe*. 

Before, he’d dug the Ally he’d gotten to know, in spite of being initially wary of her appearance. After, he was just a puddle. 

Idly, whilst his fingers found themselves dialing the number printed on the directory page, he wondered if she would keep the look tomorrow or if she would return to form. Either way, didn’t much matter to him. He *liked* her. Really liked her. They had quite a bit in common, even if she was a class above him, financially—and he above her, popularity-wise. They were both drawn to the same music, movies, TV shows. She detested both her parents, so she understood where he was coming from about Tim. She got on with her sister and often felt as though she were her only ally. He, too, experienced this with his brothers. The pressure her folks had exhibited on her at a young age, trying to force her to become someone she simply wasn’t. That same burden Tim was forever compelling Andy and his siblings under, the desire to win at all costs, be number one, “I won’t tolerate any losers in this family!” He’d been of her acquaintance for a *day*, and, already, she was one of the very few people who had truly listened to him. Not just as Andrew Clark the Star Wrestler, but as simply Andy. 

It was…refreshing. He had not realized how much he’d *needed* to relate to another human as Simply Andy. 

Placing the receiver near his ear, he listened to the line ring once, twice, three times before a cool, haughty voice picked up in Allison’s stead, and he wondered, briefly, if he had the right house. Until he remembered, yep. Different financial class. “Um. Hi. Is Allison there?”

“…for Allison? Who, may I ask, is calling?”

Andy coughed awkwardly. “Er. M—my name is Andy. Andy Clark? Uh. I met her in detention. Yesterday.” Crap. Should he have added that last part? Did it make him sound like some kind of delinquent?

“Ah,” the woman’s voice on the other end breathed, as if it all made sense. This had to be Allison’s mother. “Allow me to fetch her.” 

There followed the distinct sound of a bell ringing. Literally. A frigging *bell*. Andy actually pulled the receiver away from his head, looked at it in confusion, shrugged, then brought it back to his ear. 

A moment later, there was the echo of multiple feet thundering down the steps, then sneakers squeaking on the floor. “You rang?” Ah, *there* was Ally, as dry and sarcastic as he remembered from yesterday. 

A sigh. “You have a…gentleman caller.” 

Another voice broke in, this one higher, more excitable, and accompanied by clapping. “A *gentleman caller*?! Oooh, who is it, who is it?! Ally, do you have a *boyfriend* and you didn’t *tell* me?!” 

Allison scoffed. “El, I do not!” So, this was her sister, Eleanor, then. “And I have no idea who this could be. Probably a classmate looking for homework help or something, that’s all.” 

“He says you met in—“ Mrs. Reynolds—for that was whom Andy was assuming the cool voice belonged to—spat out the next word as though it contained poison. “—*detention* yesterday. I am somehow unsurprised that you would form friendships in detention, of all places.” 

“Ooh! You met a boy in detention! Oh, my God! You’re blushing! You *so* did!” 

Andy wondered how Allison looked in that moment. *Was* she blushing? A lovely flush of scarlet suffusing those otherwise pale ivory cheeks. Was she embarrassed? Excited? What was she thinking, exactly? He had to know!

There was a clamor and that same echo of feet running up the stairs. “I’ll take it in my room…okay, I got it! Hang up the phone! El, I can still hear you, hang up the damn phone!” There was a giggle, then a succinct click echoed over the line, and he could practically discern Allison rolling her own eyes. “Sorry, that was my sister. Sometimes, I can’t believe she’s nine years older than I am.” 

The Sport laughed in reply and crossed his legs at the knee, one hovering in the air. “I figured. Eleanor, right?”

“Yeah,” Allison agreed. There was a kerfluffle on the line as though she were situating herself—possibly getting comfortable? On the bed? ‘Whoa, Andy! Don’t go there yet, bud!’—and when she spoke again, her tone, he noted, was a bit less tense. “She’s supposed to be in California, but she’s visiting. She rarely drops by these days ‘cause Mom and Dad drive her nuts.”

Andy leaned his head against the planked white wall behind him and laughed. 

Boy, did it feel good to laugh *with* someone and not *at* someone.  
**  
Allison couldn’t believe it, really. She’d been thinking about one Andrew Clark, the very boy whose wrestling patch she’d yoinked yesterday afternoon and then stuffed in her very large bag, afraid to take it out as though it would break, as though it would disappear, as though her *memories* of him would disappear, POOF-GONE-KABLOOEY…just *vanish* from her brain like yesterday was all a marvelous, surreal dream… the very boy she’d *kissed* when she hadn’t kissed very many boys *at all* and had spent the whole of today thinking about when she really should have been savoring every moment with her sister, who lived half a country away, but her mind would not cease replaying the most awesome moments of the day before over and over again, like a wicked cool movie in her head only she could see… 

*That* boy. That very boy…had called. For her. Tonight. 

Which meant—what? That he’d had to be thinking of *her*, too! Right? 

Granted, Allison Reynolds didn’t have much experience on the subject of boys. Nor did she have many—any—girlfriends in which to dissect male behavior. She knew, after this—whatever “this” was—she could go, should go, to Eleanor for advice. For clarification. For…everything. After all, her sister had *way* more knowledge on this subject than Allison did. But…was it selfish of her to want to keep her little pocketful of Andy Memories to herself? Just…for a little bit? Finally, *she* had something to lord over Eleanor. Finally, *she*, Allison, had a juicy, delicious piece of gossip, even if it turned out to be nothing, which it most likely would. Eleanor’s life was so exciting! Blonde and beautiful, her older sister was this tall, statuesque supermodel type who jet-set to exotic locales and had just opened her own photography studio. Allison’s paltry existence was laughably pathetic by comparison. 

Oh, Ally certainly didn’t *begrudge* El or her success or anything, far from it! Of course her sister deserved everything she’d earned, having put up with their greedy, social-climbing, yuppie-freak parents all those years. Dragging her all over the state—and beyond!—to participate in pageants and shoots. Pushing her into a certain concentration and major. Controlling what she did, who she did it with, which food went into her mouth, how many pounds she was “permitted” to gain or lose at any specific time. It was madness. All that BS was—partly—why Allison had checked out of all that crap early. For Eleanor, who genuinely enjoyed fancy clothes and makeup and big hair, all those pretty things, in the beginning, pageant life had been a blast. But under her parents’—specifically, her mother’s—hawk-like gaze, it grew sour damn quickly. Like the most delicious, creamy ice cream fresh from the churner…that had laid out in the sun too long. Allison, for one, was relieved that her sister had been smart enough to know when enough was enough for her mental health and got the heckfire out of Dodge. Lenore was piiiiiiiisssed. Allison dealt with the fallout by spending day after day lost among the aisles at Fort Discs, her favorite record store, the *only* record store, in Shermer. Or inside the Discount Andy War-house, this humongous paint supply warehouse at the edge of Richieville. She bought most of her materials and stuff there. 

Ally had *planned* to make a quick trip this weekend, she really had. She was low on brushes, and she needed some more floral stencils. But…she’d been so *distracted*. With Andy-thoughts. It was insane! Here, her sister was home for only a few days, there was a big sale over at the War-house, and all Allison’s stupid brain wanted to do all damn day was ponder hunky Andrew Clark. Over and over and over again. 

Hunky, blond, *jock* Andrew Clark! *Wrestler* Andrew Clark! Way popular, BMOC type, all-American, kinda looked like a Ken doll…a really cute Ken doll. With these adorable dimples…

Gah! What was *wrong* with her?! She was digressing into a dumb, little schoolgirl with a crush!

‘…You *are* a dumb, little schoolgirl with a crush, genius.’

Allison cringed. 

She had always sort of prided herself on “not being like other girls”. She dug rock music and video games and horror movies. She was a bit of a conspiracy theorist. She had a whole journal about the JFK assassination! She didn’t *do* expensive clothes. She didn’t *do* makeup. Except for the black shit. And yet, here she was—dressed in a white cap-sleeve dress she had borrowed from El and red flats. A bit of mascara. Some gloss. A touch of blush. Most importantly, no black shit. She had tried to remember everything Claire’d done. El was ecstatic. 

The final result was…pretty. Just didn’t feel…*Allison*. 

In any event, now here she was looking very much “like other girls”. Not only that but *acting* “like other girls”, too. Maybe she truly *was* just like other girls. Maybe every girl was just like every other girl. Or something. Whatever. Facts were facts. And said facts were these: Allison Reynolds, Basketcase, was glowing and decked out in white and excited to talk to a boy she liked. 

Lowering herself to her bed—a way too big for her frame queen-size that she’d managed to goth up with a black duvet, knife-patterned sheets, and wine-hued mosquito netting—Allison shucked her flats across the room, smacking one into her Michael Myers poster—‘Sorry, Mikey, don’t kill me.’—and put her bare feet up atop the weird brown afghan her nana had knitted her years ago. The TV was crooning about Sunday, Monday, Happy Days. 

There was a brief silence on the other end, between Allison and Andy, and she scurried to come up with something to say, anything to say. Allison was used to silence…if nothing had ever been said in the first place. If conversation had already been instigated, however, she absolutely loathed the Dreaded Pause. She felt like she had to fill it at all costs. 

“Um,” she hurried, her foot nervously twitching. “H—how did you get my number?” and immediately winced upon asking that particular question. ‘Great. Now he’ll think I’m accusing him of something.’ 

Andy, on the other end, cleared his throat. “Er, the student directory. S—sorry, should I not have? I, uh, just thought—“ 

“No, no!” Allison was quick to reassure him, feeling like the world’s biggest buffoon. “I’m glad you called. I—I mean, it’s cool you called. I mean…ugh. I just wondered is all? I guess.” ‘I am totally blowing this…’ 

There was another momentary lapse, then Andy broke up in guffaws once more. Ally breathed a sigh of relief. At least she hadn’t completely freaked him out by being…her. 

“I’m glad I called, too,” he said sweetly, and Allison felt her lips stretching in a dopey grin. Her foot stopped twitching. “I’ve, um, been thinking about you. You know, all day. And, like, yesterday. Afterwards.” 

The grin grew broader. “I’ve been thinking about you, too.” 

“Good.” Was she imagining the smile in his voice? She was imagining things, right? “I know it’s too late *now*. But, uh, I was hopin’…tomorrow after school, maybe we can do somethin’?”

Allison’s heart skipped a beat in her chest, she would swear it. “What did you have in mind?” 

A chuckle traveled down the line. “Oh, I’ve got a few ideas. And, um, can I meet you? Tomorrow morning in front of the school? The steps?” 

Ally’s eyes grew wide. He wanted to meet her? At the social jungle that was Shermer High? In *public*?! On the *steps*?! That was the front courtyard, where everyone gathered before classes started. “Everyone who was anyone”, anyway. Allison usually bypassed that whole communal see-and-be-seen collective ritual by sneaking in through the parking lot and dodging into the school via side entrance. Always on the periphery. 

That was Allison Marie Reynolds in a nutshell. Forever on the periphery, in the shadows, balancing on the edges of everything. Even in yearbook photos, she never looked directly at the camera. Last year, someone on the Committee—fuck her if she knew who—had snapped some photos of one of her Art classes for the ’83-’84 yearbook, and in every one, she was either in the corner peeking out behind her curtain of hair or turned away from the camera entirely. 

Yet now, tomorrow, Andrew Clark, *the* Andrew Clark, wanted to take her out into the sun. Was she ready for that?

Only one way to find out. Right? 

“…sure, okay. The steps sound good…”

Andy released a long exhalation over the line, as if he had expected her to decline or something. “Great! I’ll see ya then! At 8ish?”

“At 8ish.”

“Okay. Great. Cool. Um, see you. ‘Night, Ally. I—I mean, Allison. Unless you do go by Ally?”

Allison giggled. Frigging *giggled*. She never giggled. ‘Really. What is *wrong* with me?’ “Ally’s fine, too. Eleanor calls me that!”

She could hear Andy’s smile. “Cool. Ally it is, then. Er, ‘til tomorrow?”

Another stupid giggle. She was beginning to sound like…like Claire Standish! “’Til tomorrow. Goodnight!” 

Once they hung up, and the cloud of boy-induced euphoria lifted, Allison could only hope she wasn’t about to walk headlong into a Carrie White-type situation.  
**  
Andy’s weren’t the only parents who were arguing.

Halfway across town, on the famed Sycamore Avenue of the Richieville section of Shermer, Claire Standish slammed her bedroom door shut, then stomped across the room and splayed out on the pink suede chaise her father had bought her on a business trip to London a few years previous. Supposedly, it dated back to the mid-1800s and was Queen Victoria’s preferred fainting couch. 

Whatever. 

Her parents were fighting…again. ‘It’s like, any minute—divorce.’ Her mother, Nora, from what Claire could discern, had run up her AmEx card, and her father, Richard, was…not happy. At all.  
‘Bet Daddy wishes Mom *had* left home without it this time.’ She snorted at her own lame joke. 

“YOU WENT OVER THE LIMIT, NORA!”

“THERE *IS* NO LIMIT ON THIS CARD, RICHARD!” 

“I KNOW! I TOOK IT OFF BECAUSE I’M A FUCKING IDIOT! I MAY AS WELL HAVE GIVEEN YOU A LOADED *GUN*! I MEANT *MY* LIMIT!” 

Claire rolled her eyes and flipped on her awesome new 30-inch Zenith. “Dynasty” was on. 

But Claire Standish was barely paying attention to the antics of Alexis Carrington and her less than functional family. And she adored “Dynasty”! It was delicious! Joan Collins was amazing! But, tonight, Joan could not compete with…John. 

“WELL! HOW AM *I* SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT *YOUR* LIMIT IS?!”

All the previous evening, she had been thinking about him. How could she not? Not only had she given him her earring—she still wore its mate in her own ear—something she’d never done, would never have *considered* doing, with *anyone*, before; she’d never even given a girlfriend one of those best friends forever necklaces. And there she was, splitting her *diamond earrings* with a boy she barely knew. 

Whom she couldn’t get out of her head. And whose kiss had made her toes curl in her boots. 

*That*, for certain, had never happened before. 

Claire Standish had, technically, kissed boys before. Many boys. …well, okay, not *that* many, but she’d had her fair share of boyfriends. Starting with Levi Harrison-Stein at sleepaway camp after seventh grade—awkward silent dates at the local movie theatre, even more awkward braces-bumping kisses—to her most recent ex, Stan Gable. Stan was this Big Man on Campus all-star blond jock, a college guy in a frat, and that had seemed a plus in Claire’s column when her friend, Megan, dragged her to one of those infamous late-night Alpha-Beta keggers and she formally met the great Stan Gable. She was intrigued at first, of course—good-looking, intelligent, athletic, rich; what was not to like? But his Golden Boy schtick got real old real quick, and Claire found herself growing *bored*. With a *college* guy! 

In the end, she had to cut him off. After a semester of steady dating, she gave him the old “it’s not you, it’s me” even though it was definitely him and resigned herself to High School Guys. 

They were all the same. No one *surprised* her anymore, never really had to begin with. Often, Claire didn’t even have a say in whom she dated; she was set up either by her friends or her parents, usually her mother. An extraordinarily wealthy CEO’s son here. The nephew of the mayor of Chicago there. “Oh, hey, Claire. Meet my cousin, Chadwick Winthrop-Ellington III! He’s been *dying* to meet you! I bet you’d be *so cute* together!” 

And inevitably, Claire would succumb to peer pressure and go out with Chadwick Winthrop-Ellington IIII for however long; her “relationships”, if they could be called that, never lasted more than a few months, at most. 

Now, Claire crossed her arms over her chest and pouted angrily. ‘Who the hell needs a fourth in the family, anyway? What are you, a king?’ 

Sometimes, she did not understand her own people. At all. 

Exhibit A—her own mother.

“YOU SHOULD KNOW NOT TO SPEND $50,000 IN ONE DAY! IT’S FUCKING COMMON SENSE, NORA! COMMON. DAMN. SENSE!”

“PSSHAW! FIFTY GRAND IS POCKET CHANGE FOR YOU, RICHARD!”

“THAT’S NOT THE *POINT*, NORA!”

Claire *lived* to shop. Obviously. She’d gotten detention for skipping class to *go* shopping, after all. But even *she* knew not to spend *that* much. 

Anyway, the last Claire had heard, Stan was now dating a cheerleader his own age. Good for him or whatever, she didn’t particularly care. One after the other, they were all the frigging same. All attractive with absolutely no personality. Or worse—a *horrible* personality. Like the time she went out with Eric Fielding. 

Ugh. 

Eric Fielding was the very, *very* privileged son of Gary Fielding, whom Claire mostly knew as the Car Guy. He owned a bunch of used car dealerships in the Greater Chicago Area and had decided that this was enough to earn him a mayoral bid. Daddy Standish owed him some cash for a “gently used” Mercedes for Nora, so, in lieu, backed him for mayor. Gary knew that Richard Standish’s bid meant quite a lot in Shermer. 

It was all political bullshit that Claire barely comprehended. Nevertheless, she was the perfect pawn.

She had to ascertain that she was seen in public with Eric-=holding hands, kissing in the park, sharing ice cream cones, all that crap. Yet, in private, Eric wasn’t as Golden Boy as he was made out to be. He made children cry just for fun. He mocked the disabled. He made a huge scene in restaurants when he didn’t consider his order sufficiently (fill in the blank) enough. He scammed on other girls right in front of her. 

Claire dropped him after three weeks. That spontaneous shopping trip? Her friends, in their nature, meant it to be retail therapy. Not that she required it but...she’d put up with Eric’s absurdity for almost a month, she deserved some pretty new things, didn’t she?

Apparently not because she got caught. 

And then she got Saturday detention and met John Bender, notorious burnout, and all that day she was disgusted and intrigued and angry and interested. No boy had ever made her feel that way. Not even close. 

When he kissed her, she thought she was gonna float away.

Float away she did not, but she’d been thinking about him all weekend. Afterwards, as her father drove her home, Claire could feel the big, dopey smile cross her face. She lay her head against the window and watched John gawk at her like he couldn’t believe what had just happened, then smile and amusedly stumble twice as he walked away.  
“Claire? Honey, who was that boy?”

In the car, Claire had started and lifted her head from the cool window. “Oh, just a guy I met today, Daddy, that’s all.”

Richard Standish chuckled and pulled the car out of the Shermer High lot. “Seemed a bit more than that to me. If you have a new boyfriend, bring him over for dinner so we can meet him, all right?”  
Both Past and Present Claire cringed at the notion of John Bender meeting Nora Standish. “Okay, Daddy. But, I swear, I just met him today. He’s not my boyfriend.” 

‘Yet.’ Claire was determined. After leafing through that wallet of his, glimpsing all his “considered girls”… 

He was not a one guy-one girl type. Claire was resolute in changing that. 

Alas, for now, she was just a stupid girl who couldn’t stop thinking about a boy. And the toe-curlingly amazing way he kissed her. 

Then, earlier today, she was at the Shermer Hills mall with her group of usuals—Megan Hicks, Sloane Peterson, Amanda Jones, Stacy and Tracy Luder, Vanessa Parker, and, ugh, Benny Hanson.  
Claire would say she didn’t know why she hung around the likes of Benny Hanson, the notorious mean girl who’d spit venom at anyone for no discernable reason, but she already knew why—peer pressure. Claire herself was no angel, and now she was expressly aware of that, but Benny was on a whole different level. 

“…and that *perm*, my *GOD*,” Benny was rambling on, pretending to gag into a nearby potted bonsai tree. Stacy and Tracy, the Luder twins, ever the kiss-ass followers, cackled in unison. 

Claire was barely paying any attention. They were bypassing the newly opened Gadzooks store that just opened on the second floor. In the window was a mannequin that was wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt and she remembered there was a cutout of Iron Maiden in John’s locker. She wondered if they had the shirt in his size, and what his size even was… 

“Uh, *hello*?! Earth to Claire?” Out of nowhere, a pink-polished tipped hand waved in front of her face, and Claire blinked, snapped out of the dozenth John-induced reverie of the weekend. Before her was Benny looking none too pleased and the Luder twins, one blonde and one brunette, both in pigtails and matching pink skirts, their claw-like hands perched on their non-existent hips. 

Claire shook her head, clearing the cobwebs, and cleared her throat. “Sorry, I was…” 

Benny rolled her eyes. “On another planet?”

As one, Stacy, the blonde, and Tracy, the brunette, giggled. “Yeah, like totally orbital!” Stacy.

“Such a space-case today, Claire!” Tracy. 

‘Oh, go sniff Benny’s butt, you lapdogs.’ That was what she *wanted* to say. Instead, what she *did* verbalize was—“Sorry, I was just—“ Frantically, Claire searched for something, *anything* in that damn store she could possibly be looking at—her, Claire Standish, checking out an article of clothing from Gadzooks. Ultimately, she settled on a kinda cool pleather jacket and jogged to it as if she simply must have it. “—looking at this jacket! Isn’t it lush?!” She held aloft the shiny black not-leather piece for the girls to see. It was covered in silver zippers at the shoulders and hips and boasted a gnarly built-in belt and buckle. 

Sloane clapped and smiled. “That’s so cute! It’d look great with that red leather skirt you bought earlier!” 

Megan, the more easygoing member of their tribe, flashed a thumbs-up. “I dig it. Totally radical.”

Benny crossed her arms over her chenille sweater. “Whatever. Just get it and let’s go. This place is too…*cheap* for my liking.”

Claire fought to keep the vacant smile on her face, grabbed the jacket in her size off its hanger, and trotted to the front desk to pay for it. Price wasn’t bad, either. 

And now, as her parents performed the same song and dance as usual, not even bothering to disguise their mutual distaste and outright hatred for each other, all Claire Standish could think about was the boy who had taken her earring bemusedly and kissed her more sweetly than she thought possible. 

‘Why did you do that?’  
‘’Cause I knew you wouldn’t.’

Flattening her lips, her brow furrowed with determination, Claire Standish searched through her Louis Vuitton messenger bag for the student directory she never used, picked up her pink cordless, and dialed.  
**  
John Bender hated Sundays. Hated. 

Sundays were Game Day in his house—every house in America, really—but in the Bender house, that meant Betting Time. 

Jake Bender wasn’t necessarily a sports fan. But he definitely was a money fan. He used sports season—which was *every* season—as an opportunity to cash in some dough. Unfortunately (for both Jake and John), Jake wasn’t a particularly savvy huckster, so he lost way more often than he won. And when he lost, he tended to take out his frustrations and aggressions on John and his ma. No surprise there. 

John sighed and glanced at the lame Pink Panther face clock he’d nailed to one of his crumbling walls when he was ten and never removed because…hey, time was time. Or so he told himself. 9:30 thereabouts. He had some time before the old man came stumbling home in a drunken stupor, likely pissed about losing a whole helluva lot of ducats down at the Fish Tank. 

That was Jake’s preferred bar, the Fish Tank. He’d even taken John there on a few occasions, during those oft receding “good days”. A young John Bender—so young, he’d still been Johnathon then, at least the first time—standing around the little hole-in-the-wall bar, bewildered, as these tough-looking biker dudes in leather vests and trucker hats joked around with him about getting him laid (to wit, he was eight) and punching his shoulder while he uncertainly sipped his pineapple soda through a straw—a truly bizarre moment. 

Laying in his bed—which was rickety and really needed to be fixed…again—John idly threw a dirty, old baseball in the air and caught it with his bare hand, seeing as he had no mitt. Up, down. Up, down. He had no idea where he’d gotten this thing from. Maybe his old man had bought it for him when he was a kid before he started smacking him around. Or maybe his grandpop had given it to him. 

Yeah, that latter one made more sense. 

Jake was down at the Fish Tank wheeling and dealing and placing bets on everything from UCLA to what time the point guard used the toilet. 

It was March Madness, that special time of year when college basketball teams pit against each other in a toe-to-toe knockout-dragout battle royale! All right, it was just a marathon of college b-ball games, whatever. But it was heaven for gamblers, and Jake was betting heavy for UCLA against USC. Which, of course, meant that USC was gonna come out victorious.

And later kick his ass. Perhaps literally drag him out of bed in the middle of the night, as he was wont. Throw him down the stairs. Stab him with that fucking razor he had in that GD Swiss Army knife of his. John hated that thing.

‘Dude, why are you thinking about this? You’re gonna drive yourself crazy. Cut it the fuck out.’

His inner monologue was right. Naturally—he was *always* right! 

Why *was* he thinking about the impending confrontation with his drunken loser of a father, who would more than likely stagger home in an inebriated rage, start out yelling for his ma, then *at* his ma, John would step in, then the old man would change course and let loose on him instead? Repeat, ad nauseaum. Why *was* he pondering that very unwelcome but probable series of events? Because otherwise, his stupid boy brain could not stop thinking about a GD *girl*. And not just any girl, but Claire-freaking-Standish. Also known as the daughter of the richest man in Shermer. Hell, probably one of the richest men in Chicago, at that! 

But, God, was she beautiful. And he’d noticed that right away. Fuck, he’d known that for years, ever since he first laid eyes on her in freshman year, walking down the Art corridor like she owned the damn place. Yet, it wasn’t until he was face to face with her, up close and personal like, that he *really* began to appreciate her exquisite beauty. 

She wasn’t what he was used to, that was for sure. The girls he’d, err, “considered” in the past tended to all have the same look, which was really kind of ass of him, come to think of it. Most of ‘em were blonde, some brunette, big hair, tight clothes, ya know, like those girls in music videos. Girls from his neighborhood. Girls who hung out outside of clubs he and his friends frequented, like Krome or Abyss. Girls who walked the same hallways he did. Girls who knew what it was like to grow up without “certain luxuries”. Those girls. 

And he’d had a helluva time with those girls. Despite his, eh, *reputation*, they weren’t all just nameless and faceless “sluts” to him. He knew all their names—Hannah, Lauren, Kim, Christine, Ashley, Felicia, Holly, Suzanne, Miranda—he was no asshole love-em and leave-em type. He was upfront with all of them from the start—what he wanted, what he was looking for, just some fun, nothing serious. Most of them were cool about that. One or two were getting a bit too attached. 

And then, there was Claire Standish. Claire GD Standish. Sitting there in that damn library (in the seat he usually occupied, to boot) in her fancy leather jacket and her fancy leather boots and her perfectly styled hair pleading with Dick that she “didn’t belong in *here*”. 

She was so *different* from the girls he was generally drawn to, but the more the day drew on, the more attracted he was to her. Her shiny, thick red hair. The little freckles on her nose. Her gorgeous ivory skin. And those lips! Like two plump cherries. 

Cherry…

Okay, he admitted it. The fact that she was a virgin turned him on like all hell. It was totally cliché and romance-novel-with-Fabio-on-the-cover stupid, but there it was. He’d never been with a virgin before…

Oh, what did it matter? A girl like Claire-frigging-Standish?! He had no chance. Zero. Zip. That was why she’d given him her earing, right? Something to remember her by? Because there was no way she’d ever look his way again? Without thinking, John’s hand rose to finger the sparkly diamond in his earlobe for the nth time that weekend. He hoped the old man never spotted it; he’d demand John pawn it or something. 

John’s thoughts of forbidden fruit were rudely interrupted by the shrill ring of his telephone. It was a shitty rotary phone he’d found at a flea market, but it was all his. He’d installed his own line about a year ago; the old man hung up on his friends whenever they called for him. “Yeah?” 

There was a pause. A small breath. Then— “John?” 

A feminine voice. And definitely not any of the ones he was used to hearing. This one was softer, breathier, more…cultured. 

Claire-frigging-Standish. He’d just been thinking about her, about her amazing porcelain skin and luscious lips and the fact that he’d probably never see her again and there she was! 

Holy shit. 

For a second, John could only gaze unseeingly out the one window in his room—the cracked one next to a huge oak tree—and blink like a dope. ‘Talk, you moron! You were *just* thinking about her and here she is! It’s like fucking magic! So *talk*, you jackass!’ Right. He could do that. ‘I think.’ “C—Claire?!” Her name came out a sort of squeak-croak, and he was ashamed of himself. The fucking Brainiac could do better. 

He could almost hear her smile on the other end, and he was still shamed. “Yeah, it’s me. Um, I got your number from the student directory; I hope that’s okay…” 

Student directory? ‘What student directory?’

“We have a student directory?”

“Yeah, it’s that blue and gray notebook thing we get at the start of every year,” Claire explained on the other end. John had no idea what she was talking about. “We’re supposed to jot down our assignments in it, too.” 

A lightbulb blinked over John’s head; he glanced at the torn notebook shoved underneath his dresser. “Ah, so *that’s* what those things are for. Been using ‘em to steady my dresser. Or as a coaster.” 

Claire giggled and John couldn’t suppress his smile in response. He found that he liked making her laugh. He quite liked it a lot. “I didn’t assume you for the ‘obsessively recording your homework’ type, John Bender.” 

“Nah,” he agreed, physically waving away that notion. “That’s more Brainiac’s thing, I think.” 

She laughed again, and John experienced warmth all over. 

What the hell was it about this girl? He barely knew her. She could be a real snob, as she’d demonstrated yesterday in that circle…thing. She was a *richie*! Not just *a* richie but *the* richie! Her old man practically owned this damn town. 

And yet…he *liked* her. He didn’t just want her or anything (though he certainly did) but genuinely liked her. She made him laugh, she pissed him off. All in the same breath. She challenged him. 

He liked that. It wasn’t often that a girl challenged him. 

And that smile…

Dang, that smile could render a man immobile. Totally witless.

She was talking. ‘Pay attention, you idiot!’

“—was wondering, I mean, I know it’s a school night and all—“ 

‘Yeah, like that matters.’ John hardly bothered to show up on Mondays, anyway. He didn’t have Shop on Mondays, and that was really the only class he genuinely enjoyed. What would he be busting his ass rising at the crack of dawn for, U.S. Government? Please. He didn’t need to know any more about Reagan’s administration, thanks. He saw enough about that shit on CNN, his old man hurling beer cans at the screen every night. 

“—but, um, do you wanna, maybe, hang out?”

John blinked. And stared at his crappy rotary phone’s receiver. If the Big Guy came down from Mount Heav-lympus or whatever and told him he would be imbued with all His powers, including the whole parting the sea thing ‘cause that had looked boss in “Ten Commandments”, John would’ve quickly believed *that* over *this*. ‘I’m now God? Sure, why not? Bender Almighty, my will be done! Claire-frigging-Standish inviting *me* to hang out? Get the fuck outta here! Ty, your practical jokes are starting to suck.’ 

He must’ve been silently agog for too long because the Princess plowed on ahead all self-conscious-like as though she had a fucking reason to be self-conscious. “I—I mean,” she laughed nervously, and John kind of hated himself and that alone was mind-boggling because he usually considered himself to be awesome. “I know it’s a Sunday night and all and nothing’s open—“

“Actually, um—“ he croaked, once again sounding like the Brainiac. Or Peter Brady. One of those. “There’s this park near me. Got an ice cream place that’s open 24 hours, 7 days a week. I, uh, know the owner.” He knew the owner ‘cause he’d been going there for as long as he could remember. Hey, the ice cream was cheap, and who didn’t like ice cream? 

“Great! Um, that sounds good,” she hastily amended, and John grinned.

He was hesitant to give her his address because, well, who wouldn’t be? He wasn’t ashamed of where he lived or anything, but, again, this was Claire-frigging-Standish. Her old man was *the* richest dude in town. She had to live in a damn castle. Chrissakes, his house could probably fit in her bathroom. Moreover, in case the old man came home early, he definitely did not want him running into Claire. He’d take one look at her and…God knew what the asshole would do. Swipe her *other* earring, at the least. And then pawn it to buy some more Jim Beam. 

So, he decided to just give her directions to the park, which was across the street and a block away from where he lived. At this time of night, there wouldn’t be many people, mostly just teenagers hooking up in the bushes. Still, to be safe, John tiptoed downstairs, dug a Ginsu knife out of the junk drawer in the kitchen, and pocketed it. He wished he still had his switchblade but Basketcase had swiped it. He’d have to get it back from her tomorrow, come hell or high water. 

At near ten, after shrugging on his denim jacket and stuffing his feet into the first pair of shoes he could find, he climbed out the window (habit), the only sounds in the air being an owl hooting and the distant echo of the TV in his parents’ bedroom. Probably a soap. His ma liked to watch the soaps whilst she laid in bed with her Smirnoff and pills. 

The old angry bubble, the exact one he’d experienced yesterday, threatened to raise its ugly, *ugly* head. As it always did when thoughts of his ma permeated. But he squashed it down. He’d put this girl through hell yesterday and she still wanted to meet him, still saw something in him that she found…he didn’t know. Worthwhile? Maybe.

He hoped.

Turning around on the slightly damp grass, he couldn’t believe what he was doing—sneaking out to go meet a girl was one thing, he’d done that countless times. Sneaking out to go meet Claire-frigging-Standish was quite another. And in the *park*, not, say, the alley behind Krome or in the bathroom at the Cineplex. He kept having to remind himself, with every step toward Kennedy Park (the town’s attempt at sprucing up his neighborhood; there were manmade ponds and racquetball courts and playgrounds and shit—literal shit, the Canadian geese sure enjoyed the park, also), that she was a different *type* of girl. To not just jump all over her and scare the hell out of her, much as he may want to. She was classy and crap. 

She was a virgin…

‘Damnit, fucking stop it, you freak! So what if she’s a virgin! What are you, some 16th century king? “I must marry a maid or the Pope won’t approve of the match!”’ 

Fucking creep. ‘Yeah. I’m talking to you, butthead.’ 

John waited outside the park’s gates—which were really just two rickety chain-link fences; Shermer’s initiative may have been to “spruce up” the ‘hood but not *that* much—feeling nervous. Like, butterflies in his stomach nervous. Unbidden, a childhood memory popped up, one of his ma bending down, grinning, and fixing his bolero tie. He thought it was at that wedding he’d gone to years ago in Knoxville. “Aw, look at ‘im! Ya look so handsome in your suit, Johnny! What’s wrong, you nervous? Ya got butterflies in your tummy, honey?” 

John sneered at the recollection. There were no more butterflies in *his* “tummy” now, thank you. 

Even though there totally were. 

John shoved his hands inside his jeans pockets. He was kicking himself that he’d forgotten his gloves. 

A few moments later, a way too expensive car drove toward him, bathing him in its headlights, and he knew before he even saw the driver who it was. No one in his neighborhood drove a car like that—holy shit, a fucking Mercedes. That…was definitely a Mercedes-Benz W-124 E-Class. Those babies were brand new. Like *brand new*. Daimler-Benz was only just manufacturing them, so Papa Standish had to get this one right off the conveyer belt. 

Shee-iiiittt. 

As impressive as the shiny silver brand spankin’ new Mercedes was, he should’ve advised her to take something less…ostentatious? That car was going to stand out like a sore thumb amongst all the decade-old Toyotas and Hondas and Oldsmobiles. 

“Hi,” Claire-frigging-Standish said, light as air, smiling as she bounced out of the driver’s seat without a care in the world. She was dressed in a furry sweater thing that showed off a slice of her creamy stomach and light-wash jeans that hugged her ass in all the right places and, once more, he had to order himself to DOWN, BOY. 

Good lord, she smelled good. Like roses or something. Or those cherry blossoms his ma planted. 

Wait, had she done that on purpose? 

No, she couldn’t have. Right?

“Eh, hi” were the first words out of his stupid mouth, eyeing the car dubiously. John quirked an eyebrow. “Nice ride.”

Claire glanced at the Mercedes dispassionately. She was probably used to viewing automobiles like this. “My dad brought it home from Germany last month.” 

John cleared his throat. He didn’t want to offend her—shit, he’d done that enough yesterday, hadn’t he?—but… “Um, that’s cool and all. Really, that car is awesome and I’d probably murder Dick for one—no, I’d *definitely* murder Dick for one—“ 

Claire giggled. Well. Score one for him. 

“—*but* in this neighborhood, parking it out here is just asking for trouble, Princess.” 

“Oh,” Claire breathed, gazing down at the shiny hood. She gnawed on her lower lip, and John’s pants felt too tight. “Jeez, I didn’t think of that. Um, there’s a security system on it?”

John shook his head. “Won’t matter, believe me. There’re guys here who will dismantle it completely and sell it for scrap. If they don’t steal it, that is.” 

The Princess looked flabbergasted. No doubt, no one in Richieville would ever *conceive* of deceiving their fellow richie neighbors. The middle and working classes, sure! But other billionaires, no way! “Wh—what’ll we do?” 

John scuffed the sidewalk with the toe of his left Chuck Taylor. “There’s a garage across the street. We could have it checked. I, uh, know *that* guy, too.” He gestured vaguely outward with his chin.

John damn near knew everyone within a ten-mile radius. 

Claire looked relieved. Not at all suspicious. ‘Damn, she’s naïve.’ It was a good thing he wasn’t out to swindle her or anything because she was a ripe target, that was for sure. “That would be great. You know, as long as you trust the owner.”

He nodded. Jax, the garage’s owner, had been operating the place since he was a kid. He was a big dude, jovial, like Santa. With a goatee instead of a long, white beard and a leather jacket in lieu of a red velvet one. His real name was Jackson but went by Jax because he figured it made him sound more badass or something. 

The fact that she, Claire-frigging-Standish, trusted his judgment about anything, let alone this amazing car, made him feel that same warmth all over. Also kind of had him worrying about her obvious naivety. 

They got in the car, and John directed her into the garage. When they pulled up to the service window, John, in the passenger’s seat, rolled his eyes at the image of the slumbering Jax, snoring away in his recliner, and he had to bang on the service window’s surface to collect his attention. “Hey! Wakey, wakey, Sunshine! You’ve got customers, Jax-ass.” 

Once more, Claire chuckled at the nickname. 

Jax awoke with a snort mid-snore and nearly tumbled out of his recliner. “Huh? Wha..? I’m awake! Hey, Bender! What’cha in the passenger seat for? Holy crap, is that a—“

“Yes, genius, it’s a Mercedes.” As one, he and Claire climbed out of the vehicle, John much more carefully, as if his mere presence in the car had tainted it somehow. Cherry passed him the keys—way too unthinkingly for his liking—and he deposited them in Jax’s outstretched, meaty palm. John patted his just as meaty bicep. “Take *good* care of this car, you hear? Or else her—“ He thumbed over his shoulder at Claire. “—father’s going to come down here and kill me.” 

Jax perked his head behind John’s shoulder toward Claire. In the service window’s reflection, he watched her smile and wave. The older man, naturally, was putty in her hands and melted, grinned like a dork in response, wiggled his sausage fingers like a dope, and turned back to him. “Who is *she*?! She’s definitely not like the other chicks I see ya around with, Bender.”

John glowered. “Keep your voice down! She’s a…friend. I met her in detention. Now, shut up.” 

In the reflection, Claire was biting her lip to keep from guffawing out loud. She was listening to every word. Figured. Obviously she’d be trained in the espionage arts, too. 

Jax grinned a gap-toothed smile. “She’s pretty. Like a rose or somethin’.” 

John smacked the man upside the head. “Yeah, and she’s also 16! Just…watch the car, you creep. Here.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved a ten-dollar bill, plus a fiver for “extra incentive”. “It’ll only be an hour or so.” 

Jax collected the money and deposited the bills inside the register. “Well, jeez Louise, I didn’t-a know she was only 16. You usually go ‘round with the older broads, so ‘scuse me!” 

John closed his eyes and counted to ten. He wanted to kill Jax. Although he was right. The girls in his wallet, a lot of them were in their 20s. Not his fault. That was just who hung around the places he haunted. 

Back at the park, John didn’t entirely know what to say, what to do, so he dodged for the 24-hour ice cream parlor built in a pillbox kiosk just off one of the soccer fields. The lights emanating from the place damn near blinded him in the darkness. 

Rubbing his neck nervously, he turned back to Claire, who was standing behind him scanning the menu. “They, uh, don’t have much of a selection but their stuff’s good, so…” 

“Just vanilla. With raspberry syrup, please.” 

Of fucking course she’d want vanilla. 

So, he ordered her van-fucking-illa and he got some Rocky Road in a sugar cone and just as he was about to pay for both, she pulled out her wallet and said, a tad shy, an emotion he hadn’t thought her capable of “You paid for the car, I’ll pay for the ice cream,” which was actually pretty damn cool of her ‘cause he figured most chicks preferred the dude to pay for stuff on dates (*was* this a date? What the hell was this?) and then led her to his favorite spot, a stone bench perched on a slight incline overlooking the whole of the park. It was kind of nice, if one negated the stench of the petrol refineries in the background. 

She also looked really pretty in the moonlight. Her skin appeared fucking luminous. Sparkly, almost. 

“Wow,” she murmured, gazing up at the moon. It was full. “Thriller” video full. “It’s beautiful here. Where I live, the sky is pretty concealed. You know, by all the houses...” 

Claire gazed down at her lap. She probably figured John wouldn’t wanna hear about how the homes in her area were so big, they obscured the view. Whatever. At least she’d *noticed* the social faux pas. 

“Yeah,” John agreed, sarcastic. His default mode when he was anxious. “The Chicago pollution is certainly turning the sky pretty colors!”

Claire’s laughter was akin to the twinkly metal things his ma had hung up outside the kitchen window when he was a kid. Wind chimes, he remembered. 

The ensuing silence made him feel nervous. Reaching up a hand to rub the back of his neck, an anxious habit from childhood that he’d never cared enough to squash, John asked lamely, “You, uh, like your vanilla? I mean, the ice cream?”

Stupid. ‘Do you like your vanilla?’ Everything he said was a damn double entendre, wasn’t it? And while that could be hilarious in the right context, now was *definitely* not the right context. He may as well have just asked her if she liked being a prude. 

The fuck was wrong with him?

He knew what was wrong with him. John spent most of his free time—when he wasn’t intervening in his parents’ arguments and receiving the brunt of his old man’s ire for his efforts—with his buddies. They weren’t exactly on the Standish level. Ty was addicted to video games and cursed at the TV like he was in the military and truly being shot at. Jones was quite proud of being able to burp the alphabet. Gav recorded his, err, “conquests” in a notebook. And Ash was high more than he wasn’t high. He *was* a richie, though. 

They’d all sort of…rubbed off on each other. John was no longer that confused little boy in the Fish Tank drinking pineapple soda from a straw, that was for damn sure. 

Bender glanced at Queenie out the corner of his eye. So, then, what the hell did she see in *him*? Or was this all some attempt at getting back at her parents? *He’d* been the one to suggest that very notion, after all.

“Remember how you said your parents use you to get back at each other? Wouldn’t I be *outstanding* in that capacity?” 

Damnit! Had he fucked himself? He did that often, so it was possible. And…how corny lameballs was it that he maybe sorta kinda wanted more than that? To just be her ally in aggravating her parents…though it would be funny and he lived to annoy authority figures of any kind…he didn’t want to be a mere backboard. 

‘You’re a fucking pussy.’ 

Claire, however, did not look nervous at all. She was gazing out into the pretty park surrounded by filth and inhaling the gasoline fumes from the gas station nearby and somehow smiling. “I like it. You were right; this is really good ice cream.”

She dug her spoon into her plastic serving dish and brought the spoonful of syrupy vanilla to her mouth as if to illustrate the point. John could only watch as her lips closed over the plastic utensil, his pants once again squishing his junk. 

John breathed a laugh and idly raised an index finger to his cheek. “You got a little—“

“Are you going to—“

They spoke at the same time. It was like something out of a fucking romantic comedy. 

Claire giggled, and the wind chimes tinkled again. “Sorry, y—you go ahead.” 

John cleared his throat. “Um. I was just gonna tell you that you have some ice cream on your face. That’s all.”

Queenie’s pretty coffee-colored eyes widened. “Oh, I do?! Ew. Now I’ll get a zit.” 

Chuckling, he picked up a paper napkin from the wad he’d snatched from the dispenser, scooted a bit closer to her, and very carefully blotted the ice cream away. Like she herself was made of porcelain and would break if he touched her too hard. Or he’d dirty her up just by being in her presence. Or—

“You’re wearing it.”

John blinked. “Wearing what?”

Her lips stretched in a smile, a full-blown beam, and John was momentarily taken off-guard. That thing was a fucking weapon of mass destruction. It could render a man witless. “The earring. You’re wearing it.”

His hand automatically rose to once again finger the sparkly diamond in his lobe. The bauble was probably worth more than his old man’s car. Feeling the heat rise into his neck and desperately trying to avoid it—while thanking the heavens that it was nighttime and Claire did not possess night-vision goggles as far as he knew—John shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “It looks good on me.” 

This time, Claire didn’t laugh or giggle. Instead, shocking the hell out of him—literally, he felt a shock—she took his hand resting on his knee, and he was very self-conscious about his hands, he thought they looked like road maps, and he was about to grab it back instantaneously but the warmth of her flesh was so inviting and the pads of her fingers felt so damn *good* on his calloused ones, he just let her take the lead. 

She turned her head, and that was when he saw the same damn earring in her own lobe, which had to mean that she’d been thinking of him before tonight, right? Claire didn’t seem the type to sleep in her jewelry but carefully remove every piece before bed… Had she slipped it back inside her ear this morning? Or was he looking way too deep into things like a chump? 

Jesus. He felt like such a…girl.

‘You *are* a girl. Pussy.’ 

Was this what it meant to question every little thing a chick did? To be into someone that much, when he barely knew her to begin with? He remembered when Gav was damn obsessed with this girl from their Shop class, Lana. Pink-haired Lana with all her tattoos and shit, he’d been *crazy* about her and talked all their ears off about everything Lana. Then second-guessed every tiny thing she did. “She looked at me today in class; what does that mean?!” “When I called her last night, she told me she’d ‘see me tomorrow’; is that some sort of girl code?” “Lana bought me a birthday gift! That must mean something, right?!”

It hadn’t. Lana started dating Teddy Salazar shortly thereafter, and Gav was brutally bereft. 

John had called Gav so many variations of “pussy” over those lost few months. “Pussy-whipped”, “pussy brain”, “pussy-wussy was a Gav”, etcetera. But, now, well…he was beginning to truly understand where his friend had been coming from. 

When she leaned in and pressed her achingly soft lips against his for the second time, John could’ve sworn he was on fire. Every extremity tingled, from his toes to his fingers. Hell, his *hair* tingled.

When she pulled away, she grinned into his stunned face and hid her neck in her shoulders. Like a turtle. A very sexy turtle. “I wanted to do that as soon as I saw you standing there tonight…” 

Nothing could’ve blown his mind more. He had assumed that that one (fantastic) kiss from yesterday had been just…a lost moment, never to be repeated. Why he’d assumed that, he couldn’t rightly say. Perhaps because he was used to disappointment, to the dark side of the Force, to stuff never working out for him. 

Was Claire-frigging-Standish about to change all that? He couldn’t imagine—

“Please say something,” she muttered, gazing down at her lap, and John realized that he’d been staring off into space like a moron and making this girl feel unnecessarily insecure, and he could’ve punched himself in the face. 

He didn’t bother; he just kissed her again, *really* kissed her. With his scarred hand cupping her cheek and his fingers digging into her hair—holy shit did she smell good!—and his teeth biting her lip. He didn’t want to freak her out—he knew she’d had a million boyfriends before but didn’t know how far she’d “gone” with any of them, physically speaking—so he kept the kiss close-mouthed until he felt the curious, velvety tip of her tongue against his, and that was his damn near undoing. 

When they pulled back, she scooted closer on the bench and rested her head on his shoulder. Jerkily, almost afraid to move, he lay an arm on the back of the bench, just behind her own shoulders, and part of him couldn’t begin to *believe* what the hell was happening. 

If this was a dream, it was the best one he’d ever had. No holds barred. 

John gazed down at the top of her red head spilling over his ratty flannel shirt like a waterfall. “What were you gonna ask?”

“Hmm?” 

“Before,” he clarified. “When we, you know, started speaking at the same time.”

“Oh!” Claire breathed a chuckle into the cotton of his shirt. “I was just going to ask you if you were coming to school tomorrow.” 

He…he hadn’t been planning on it. He knew that there was going to be drama ahead come Monday, and John generally tried to avoid drama. But now…

Well. He might just. 

Besides, he still had to get his knife back from Basketcase. 

“…maybe” was how he answered her question, and he immediately wondered if that made him sound like an ass. Or maybe mysterious. A mysterious ass? 

Small hands squeezed his bicep. “I hope you do. And I’m sure the others do, too.”

The ensuing dopy smile on his face was like something out of a cartoon. 

Maybe Mondays weren’t *that* bad. Maybe.  
**


	6. note: chapter 1.5

Hey guys I posted the "explainer" chapter, at least the first part. It should be between the first two. If AO3 didn't screw up on me.


	7. chapter 1.5

aaand I posted part 2. The end of the explainer chapters and now I can get into the good stuff!


	8. Chapter 3: Manic Monday (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok here is the beginning of Monday! Everything starts good but there will be dramz, I assure you.

Chapter 3: Manic Monday (Part 1)

For all her bravado that morning, Allison couldn’t coerce her feet into movement. 

Upon waking that Monday morning, she had stared at her reflection in the mirrored medicine cabinet and given herself a long pep talk—until Lenore demanded she get out of the bathroom; she had to shower. Never mind that their house had three bathrooms in total, all with shower stalls. 

Then, it came time to get dressed, and she didn’t entirely know what to do *there*, either. Her post Claire-over look was nice and all, and God knew she had tried to replicate it yesterday, but all weekend, she hadn’t really felt…herself. The preppy look—headbands and belted blouses, ruffles and pink lip gloss—had never been *her*, and wearing it was akin to an out of body experience for Allison; it was her but not her in those expensive suede flats and frilly white dress and that bow in her dark hair. Standing in front of her dresser, Allison considered—the longest she’d ever contemplated what she’d wear that day. Aside from the first day of kindergarten—the lamb-patterned leotard or the poufy denim dress (she ended up choosing the denim dress at her mother’s insistence). 

Fingers shaking, an image of Andy’s smiling face dancing in her head, Allison squared her jaw. She would not dress a certain way just to impress a boy! What was the matter with her? She was Allison Reynolds; she didn’t care one iota about that shit. 

A total fabrication—she cared a little, she always had, and any teenager who claimed not to give a crap at all was full of it—but one that she needed to get through the morning. 

In that moment, Ally made a decision. She would not hide, but she would also not subject herself to, ugh, *conventionalism* just to please the masses. That had never been her and still wasn’t. 

Yet, the colorless monotone of her life had begun to fade on Saturday. For the first time in years, she’d glimpsed color, true color, and she realized her world *needed* that. The pink of Claire’s makeup. The red of Bender’s scratchy scarf—also the hue of his flaming ire. The green of Brian’s sweatshirt. The blue of Andy’s deep, soft eyes…

Gulping audibly, Ally reached for a pair of high-waisted jeans she never wore and a soft sweater. Both hues of blue, a color she hadn’t willingly donned since middle school. 

Once dressed, at the vanity she also never used, she outlined her eyes in kohl—but a much thinner layer than was accustomed—dusted her cheekbones with blush, and colored her lips in flesh-toned lipstick. All products Claire had gifted to her on Saturday without a second thought, all designer and very expensive. 

Downstairs, even her mother commented, following a brief hesitation, that she looked “different”. 

Ally couldn’t bring herself to eat that morning. The butterflies were incessant. And she didn’t want to mess up her makeup. 

She kind of hated herself for entertaining that last thought. 

So, now here she was, on the far edge of the parking lot where she was habitually dropped off, watching her fellow students amble. Most toward the front courtyard, some sneaking in through the school’s side doors. Prior to today, that had been *her* slipping in through the jamb off A-Wing, brushing past the admin offices, her head down, her gaze steadfastly on her own feet. A black-clad figure in an enormous coat clutching whichever text books and binders she needed for her morning classes. 

Almost hard to believe that was only a few days ago. In her world, everything had changed, turned on a dime, flipped upside-down. 

She only hoped that she wasn’t about to be humiliated. 

Inhaling a deep, shuddering breath, Allison crossed the expanse of parking lot toward the social pyramid that was the front courtyard. Via her past people-watching observations, she quite knew how it all worked. The D-Group—those who even bothered to wait in the courtyard for the first bell and didn’t just slip inside the school like she did—were relegated to the periphery, lingering off the sides of the slab of concrete, sitting under the few trees the concrete jungle that was Shermer High offered. Kids like, well, like Brian (and Larry Lester, she assumed). If they dared try to further approach the Glittering Court, they would be unceremoniously halted by the jock brutes of the school. That was just how it worked—and had, for many years.

The C-Group hung out along the edges of the courtyard. They were the slackers of the student body, those that didn’t really try…at anything. Just like inside the walls of Shermer, they didn’t participate, but they were certainly *there*, and everyone knew it. They were impossible to miss, what with their multihued hair and shaggy clothing and piercings. This was where someone like Bender would’ve loitered before first bell, but Allison had a feeling that a guy like him would’ve preferred the isolation of the stands. 

The whole of the courtyard was populated by the B-Group, mostly theatre kids and those in the chorus, some lesser athletes (those on the golf team or the bowling team). They mingled amongst each other—but rarely left the comfort and security of their own individual groups; theatre kids did not mesh well with athletes, lesser or otherwise—chattering about this and that. As Allison meandered her way through the throngs, she caught snippets of conversation. Everything from excited discussion of the recently announced spring musical, “Annie” (Allison considered that it made sense the Drama Department would choose that one, since the movie from a few years previous was such a hit) to arguing over which golf club was easier to use and how to position oneself to properly throw a bowling ball down the lane. The girls’ softball league quarreled over who was leading off the roster next week. 

All mundane, all completely inclusive to their own, using jargon that no one outside their shelters would understand. And that was how they liked it. 

Then, there was the Glittering Court at the top of the staircase—the A-Group. The Claires and Benny Hansons of the school. The rich kids, as well as the top tier athletes like Andy. They loomed over the rest of the student body in their designer duds and perfect hair and glossy lips. They giggled and chuckled to each other, sharing A-Group anecdotes—but *never* deigning to speak to anyone they considered beneath them. 

The sole exception? Ferris Bueller, who flocked to different cliques sight unseen, without interference. He was a popular guy, Ferris Bueller was, but he remained the lone member of the A-Group that could do and talk to as he pleased without suffering the repercussions. 

Allison shook her head. High school in a nutshell. This was why she generally bypassed all these unnecessary teenage politics. 

As ludicrous as she knew it all to be, this “hierarchy”, that didn’t stop her from feeling anxious as she slowly approached the cement stairs. At the very top stood Andy in his letterman’s jacket—now sans his wrestling patch—talking quietly to Stubbie Marshall. 

Two blond jocks, heavily muscled, amid a line of other heavily muscled jocks. Staring down at her with unreadable, stony expressions. Arms crossed over their broad chests. 

Damn but this was intimidating. And she hated that she felt so. 

The jocks stared down at her as though they were a pride of lions and she their unwitting prey. Allison gulped again. Her palms began to sweat, and she wiped them off on the sides of her jeans…

…until Andy noticed her ascent up the not so grand staircase and stretched his lips in that same sweet smile she’d come to know on Saturday. At once, Allison’s stampeding heart began to relax.

Two meatheads in letterman’s jackets blocked her way. One redheaded and freckled all over. The other dark-haired and swarthy. Allison paused, her blood running cold. 

“Whoa. Password,” barked the brunet. He had huge shoulders, she noted. Must’ve been a football player. 

‘Password?’ Andy hadn’t given her a password last night on the phone. 

‘Oh, God—this is a “Carrie” moment, isn’t it?’ She could see the eponymous movie now, the blonde head of Sissy Spacek replaced with her own as the bucket of pigs’ blood was spilled atop it—and everyone laughed and laughed. ‘And I don’t even have telekinesis.’ That she knew of. 

Fortunately (for both Allison and her sanity), Andy himself stepped forward and placed a hand on the meathead’s shoulder. “Relax, Brady, she’s with me.”

Allison’s heart melted. Just a little. 

This “Brady” nodded once and stepped back, as though letting a door that had been locked to her drift open. Andy grinned at her again, and all thoughts of pigs’ blood and burning children alive with her mind evaporated. 

Now, Brady and his redheaded buddy were eyeing her with blatant interest. The freckled boy, whose jacket simply read “Ham” in loopy silver script, set his eyes directly on her chest. Allison scoffed. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have worn a v-neck.’ 

“Sorry about that,” Andy said once she completed her ascent to the top of the Pyramid of Shermer. “I, uh, forgot about the password thing. It’s stupid but tradition, I guess.” 

Kind of a weird tradition, but she wasn’t going to question the complexities of the A-Group. Her brain would fry. 

“Yeah,” another one of Andy’s Sport friends said, clapping him on the back and smirking. “Goes back to Prohibition days. Used to be a speakeasy in this place, ya know. Back before Shermer High was Shermer High, it was a police station. Ironically. And they had an illicit club down where the confidential files are.”

Andy rolled his eyes and regarded her. “That’s Stubbie. He’s obsessed with this town’s history.”

Stubbie Marshall scoffed. “I am not ‘obsessed’! I am merely interested. Besides, how many people can say their school used to be an underground party for illegal alcohol intake? It’s awesome.” 

Allison decided right then and there that she rather liked Stubbie. Still not sure about Ham and Brady over there. 

“Whatever,” Andy snorted. “Anyway, this is Mark Davis, Keith McDonald, Anthony Hewlitt, Leo Cortez, Frankie Haskett, and Mike Matthews. You already know Brady and Ham. Guys, this is Allison.”

As one, as though rehearsed, each of the meatheads chorused “Hi, Allison”—with the exception of Franke Haskett, who merely burped—and Ally felt a tentative warmth niggle at the back of her neck, worming its way down to the base of her spine. These were the most popular boys at school, and they were conversing with *her*. Or at least acknowledging her. She didn’t think she had spoken a word to most of these people since grade school. 

One of the guys—she thought it was Leo Cortez—cocked his head to the side. “Are you new? I mean, you *do* look kinda familiar but…” 

Allison shrugged, feigning a nonchalance she didn’t feel. At all. “Nah, I’ve been around…” 

“Ally takes a lot of classes in D-Wing,” Andy smoothly explained; the tightness in her shoulders began to loosen. “You may not have seen her around much.” 

Leo Cortez nodded, accepting that for what it was worth. They obviously did not recognize her, which didn’t surprise her in the least. Even dressed in her usual black attire, she was invisible. The other week, someone had *sat* on her. Now outfitted in a way that brought her out in the sun, to the living, why would they not see someone else entirely? Heck, *she* had barely recognized herself this morning. “Ah, the art classes, right? I take Jewelry Design I down there.”

Stubbie knocked him with his elbow. “Make sure to make us something pretty, Cortez. My mom needs a new pair of earrings.”

Leo Cortez scowled at him, black brows forming a V over his dark eyes. “I’m takin’ it for the easy A, all right?! Sheesh, how many times do I have to say that?!”

Stubbie guffawed and made kissing noises at him. Leo flipped him off. 

Andy shook his head, but he was smiling. “Guys, knock it off. You’re an embarrassment.” 

The other blond jock in the baseball letterman’s jacket didn’t listen and continued to torment poor Leo Cortez for opting to take Jewelry Design. Allison wondered how deep he was into this semester’s first project because that class was *no* easy A. She still had the soldering scars to prove it. 

“The Art Wing, huh?” Anthony Hewlitt drawled, one thumb tucked into his jeans pocket and the other hanging limply by his side. 

Allison didn’t miss Andy eyeing him with uncertainty, and she was instantly on guard. What did she know about Anthony Hewlitt? Decent student, all-star soccer player, last year’s Spring Fling King. Also kind of a jackass, if the girls in the locker room were to be believed. And she had no reason not to trust their judgment. 

Great. 

“You take art classes, then, uh, *Allison*?” Up went one dark brow. This guy had to be the Sport all the other Sports answered to or whatever. 

“...I do,” she admitted, quelling the intense urge to squeak. In her mind’s eye, far back, she saw her mother across the table at the country club frowning in mortification after she introduced her youngest daughter, then all of seven, to her tribe of social climbing minions. Allison, nervous, had let out a squeal, and they all looked at her as if she had just grown a tree out of her butt. 

“Allison does wicked sketches,” Andy slid in again, bestowing that same closed-lipped grin in her direction, the very same one he’d flashed at her on Saturday. “She’s really talented. She can probably even sketch *you*, Hewlitt.” 

Allison nodded. She likely could. If she could get the guy to sit still long enough. 

“Hope you got some red colored pencil,” Stubbie laughed. “For the boiling pustules on his ass.” 

Anthony sneered. “Oh, fuck you, Marshall.” 

“Nah, I’m good,” Stubbie continued to chuckle, one arm braced on Andy’s shoulder as he laughed. “Wouldn’t mind Ms. Tyler, though. *Yow*!” 

Ms. Tyler, the Home Ec. Teacher. She was in her thirties, but Stubbie didn’t seem to mind that. At all. 

Frankie Haskett, the burper, looked pensive. “I heard that she’s a lesbian.”

This, too, did not deter Stubbie. “Even better!” 

Andy nudged Stubbie’s arm off his shoulder, laughing. “Dude, you’re such a freak.” 

“No, I’m seventeen. I’d be a freak if I *wasn’t* perpetually horny.” 

Allison grinned. She definitely liked Stubbie. He was a smartass, but she got along with smartasses in general. 

Mark Davis, also on the football team, was staring at her, and she only just realized it. Critical eyes closed to slits beneath the wild brown mullet of hair. He rather resembled a young Patrick Swayze. The girls in the locker room sniped about *him*, too. Allison was instantly on guard, the tension back in her neck and collarbone. “You *sure* we haven’t seen you before? I could swear you’re in my English Lit class.” 

Oh, shit. He *was* in her English Lit class. She hadn’t remembered because he always sat up front next to head cheerleader Susan Mitchell. ‘Gee, wonder why’. 

Andy’s gaze slid toward hers, and he worked his lips at the same time. Like he was trying to think up something to say, anything to say. Did he not want to reveal that she was *Allison Reynolds*, that weird creepy girl in the big coat, because he didn’t know whether *she* wanted her real identity to be revealed…or because he was simply embarrassed? 

Before Allison could conceive of a reply, a soprano feminine voice she hated to recognize jumped into the conversation. “I know who she is,” Benny Hanson said, approaching the Sports from the opposite side of the staircase where all the Princesses hung out. She wore a chilling smirk about her shiny lips, and her light eyes were dancing. Atop her head, she donned a plaid headband that pushed back her waves of golden hair, a dress choice that said “innocent and naïve” when Allison knew she was anything but.

An icepick lodged itself in Ally’s stomach. She shared a panicked glance with Andy. 

Anthony Hewlitt strode forward. “Then, who is she?”

Benny Hanson parted her glossy lips to respond. Allison’s fingers formed fists at her sides. 

**  
Brian Johnson was late, a happenstance that did not occur very often. 

He had woken up that morning as he habitually did, his Tweety Bird alarm clock ringing in his ears—“I t’ought I thaw a putty tatt! I did, I did, it went t'at-a-way and you have to get up and find him!”—and for one blessed second, his sleep-clouded mind forgot what day it was. Why this particular Monday meant so much more in the grand scheme of his life. 

When he recollected, the butterflies that had flapped their wings the entirety of Sunday returned. 

Brian padded into the bathroom to shower and shave and make good use of the toilet, careful to brush his teeth between his braces and reapply the rubber bands at the molars. That done, he slumped back to his room and indolently pulled on his clothes. Cargo khakis. Reebok sneakers. A red sweater his nana had knitted for him. He knew, in hindsight, that he should’ve been more eager, today of all days, to go to school, but in actuality, he was dreading it. Would there be a confrontation? He did *not* do good with confrontation. Would any of them even acknowledge his existence today? Would *Claire*? Andy? 

He felt sick. Physically ill. 

His mother, who seemed to have an innate sixth sense about her children’s welfare, bustled inside his bedroom already dressed in one of her trademark swishy jogging suits, in the midst of affixing an oversize earring to one of her lobes. ‘Why would you need to wear earrings with a jogging suit?’ It wasn’t like real joggers got all dolled up before they headed out to run. 

“Brian?” she began, walking further into the room. “What’s wrong? You look all clammy. Are you sick? Are you nauseas? What’s going on?”

Brian lifted his head from where it lay held in his hands. “I’m fine, Mom. I just…have a headache.”

Mercedes Johnson rested her hands on her hips. “It would ruin your perfect attendance record, but do you wanna stay home today? I could get you in to see the doctor at noon.”

Tempting, *very* tempting, but… “No, I’ll just take a Tylenol.” If he skipped out on class today, he’d never know…what he needed to know. Projections of the other four coming together, asking “Hey, where’s Brian?”, then laughing when no one cared would haunt his mind. 

His mom nodded, apparently relieved. Brian’s perfect attendance record would remain intact. “Fine, good. You better get downstairs. Eat your breakfast—I made eggs—then help your dad clean out the garage before school. Hurry, hurry! Go, go, go!” 

The mere thought of food triggered Brian’s upchuck reflex, so he woke Mary up—and was rewarded with a kick in the face for his trouble—and went downstairs to help Ralph in the garage. The Johnsons were gearing up for a garage sale, and that meant cleaning out all the crap in the space to find the good stuff. 

“Brian,” Ralph Johnson started. He looked like an ostrich burying its head in the sand with his upper body concealed in a large cardboard box. “You mind getting me the toolbox? It should be on the shelf above the boat.” 

Unthinkingly, Brian nodded and padded from the front door, past his father in the driveway, and into the ajar garage. Darting for the left side where the boat rested. He stopped as soon as he reached it, feeling sick all over again, remembering how, last Friday morning, he’d snuck in here, pushed past the crinkled cover that blanketed the open-air boat, and dug out Ralph’s orange flare gun from the depths of the fishing box…

It wasn’t in there now, he knew. After the locker incident, Vernon had confiscated the flare gun, so it would likely still be in his office. Knowing how absentminded the vice principal could be, it’d probably remain there, too, until the end of the year. Of course, he hadn’t told his parents the reality behind his snatching of the flare gun; they’d have had him committed. He ended up spinning some yarn that he stole it to show his friends and it went off in his locker. The schoolboard wouldn’t believe the “real” story so ordered him to attend group therapy. 

The bullshit had placated his parents…for now. They were all too willing to believe it. Mercedes wouldn’t be able to “live” with a son who’d entertained suicidal thoughts; she’d be mortified and blame him for the lapse in mental health, not that she even believed mental health was a thing. Ralph would drive himself bonkers trying to assure his mother that she was still a good mom. 

“Brian? You find that toolbox for me?”

Snapping himself out of it, Brian shook off the cobwebs, reached over the stationary boat for the black toolbox sitting on the edge of a steel shelf, and brought it out to his father. He spent the next forty-five minutes hauling crap in boxes from inside the garage out to the garbage bins at the end of the driveway. The heaviest stuff because his dad had a bad back. 

Being a good son made him late for school, so he dashed inside, grabbed his knapsack, and ran all the way to the high school. When he got there, he was sweating chilled bullets and had to suck on his inhaler a few times, then sign in late. 

As he was doing so, Mr. Vernon, clad today in an all-white suit like he was headed to Studio 54 after this, sauntered out of his office whistling a jaunty tune. “Ah, Mr. Johnson. Late?”

Brian finished jotting his name on the late sign-in sheet and nodded. “S—sorry, Mr. Vernon. I was, um, helping my dad and I lost—lost track of time.” 

Vernon glanced up at the face clock hanging over the door. “Well, you better get a move-on. Dr. Hashimoto is expecting you.”

Brian cocked his head to the side, confused. “I, um, th—thought my appointment with him was t—tomorrow?”

“He must’ve moved it to today because you’re on the schedule. In fact, you’re up next. The guidance counselor’s office, pronto.” 

Thankfully, the guidance counselor’s office was only a hallway away and he didn’t need to run because he had no more ability left in him. 

To his surprise—and cautious delight—the student Hashimoto saw before his own rushed appointment had been none other than Allison Reynolds. He (quite literally) ran into her as he was entering the guidance offices and she was walking out. She looked more Claire—but not *too* Claire—than Allison this morning in a pair of light-wash jeans, a blue sweater, and her hair up in one of those half ponytail things. Very unlike the Allison Reynolds who had entered that library on Saturday morning. 

“Allison!”

Allison perked her head up from self-consciously straightening her sweater and grinned. He thought it was a genuine one but he couldn’t be sure… “Oh, Brian! Hi!”

But then she hugged him like they were long lost friends and he felt the doubt and insecurity eking out of his rigid posture. He relaxed and smiled and, a tad hesitant, returned the friendly embrace. 

“Wh—what are you doing, um, here?” he asked once she pulled back. 

Allison hefted her messenger bag higher on her shoulder. “Oh. I kinda sorta made Benny Hanson believe there were spiders in her hair. She started screaming and crying, so they sent me down to ‘have a talk’ with Hashpipe.” 

Brian smirked. That sounded like something the girl before him would do, dressed head to toe in baggy black or not. Too bad he hadn’t seen it for himself. 

“Cl—classic. T—tell Bender that, he’d love it.” Brian paused for a pregnant moment. “Y—you know, if you can.” If John didn’t completely shun them today, that was. 

Allison smiled as if in understanding. “I better get back to my geometry class. I left all my stuff in there, and Mrs. Jenson keeps all the shit she confiscates.” 

Brian nodded. He’d had Mrs. Jenson last year. The woman had taken his calculator early in the fall semester and, for all he knew, still had it. “If, um, you need help, I—I can always offer assistance.” 

Crap. Why had he assumed that she’d need help with geometry? Maybe Allison was an ace in math! They hadn’t covered their academic strongpoints on Saturday. All he knew was that Bender took Shop and hated trig. 

Allison’s smile stretched wider, more genuine. “Thanks, I could use it! I’m okay with algebra, but geometry boggles my mind. The syllabus Mrs. Jenson handed out may as well be in Ancient Greek.” 

So now he also knew that Allison did not know Ancient Greek. He chuckled, relieved that he hadn’t accidentally offended her. “Th—this is my first time seeing, er, Dr. Hashimoto. Any tips?”

Shit. He hoped he hadn’t just insinuated…something. That she was crazy and needed routine appointments with the guidance counselor. 

Because she wasn’t crazy. She was just…Allison. 

Tapping her chin as if in thought. Allison said, “Just agree with everything Hashpipe says or else you’ll be there all day. Trust me. I’ve been here *a lot*. The administration doesn’t seem to like my drawings.” 

Reaching into her very deep bag, she pulled out one of those said drawings sketched on a wrinkled piece of white construction paper. Unfolding it, she showed the illustration to Brian. It was a caricature of Rooney as an evil clown, red hair and all. Blood dripped off the sketched Rooney’s pointed fangs, and he held a balloon in his hand. The caption read “Rooney Ballooney” in whimsical block letters. 

Brian guffawed and asked her to make a copy so he could hang it in his locker. She just gave him that one. “I have so many,” she insisted. “The wallpaper in my room is just my sketches. Drives my mom nuts. But I won’t miss one.” 

A breath of respite eased some of the stiffness in Brian’s spine whilst he watched as Allison, an uncharacteristic jaunty wiggle to her hips, left the office. ‘At least one of them won’t pretend I’m invisible today.’  
**  
Claire wasn’t quite ready to shout to the world—the world at Shermer High, anyway—that she was absurdly into one John Bender, most notorious delinquent and prankster of the school.

It relieved her to know that neither was he. 

Before they separated the evening before, sitting on the periphery of that gorgeous park plunked smack dab in the middle of a neighborhood otherwise surrounded by petrol fumes and oil refinery plants, they discussed what they would do tomorrow/today. Neither Claire or John were in favor of, like, taking out a billboard and planting it in the middle of the football field—both needed time to, eh, come to terms with new developments, and the idea of shaking up the status quo inside their respective cliques was not one that appealed to either of them, not just yet—so they planned to meet in that same janitors’ closet at lunch. 

For the first time waking up at “dawn’s asscrack”, as John called it, Claire allowed the excess exhaustion to seep from her pores and permitted herself to feel downright giddy. She was not only going to see a boy she really liked, but they also kind of had a secret. 

And that was hot, wasn’t it?

Claire pulled off her pink satin sleep mask just as Greta bustled in. “Oh!” the housekeeper exclaimed in surprise. “You are awake! Your alarm clock hasn’t even gone off yet. I usually have to poke you with my feather duster to wake you up, Fräulein.” She chuckled to herself. 

Claire climbed off the edge of the bed. “Not today, Greta!”

The middle-aged woman in the gray maid’s uniform and taut bun at the top of her head narrowed her gaze like a hawk and eyed her charge suspiciously. Claire could’ve smacked herself. Was she *too* obvious? To the point where even her housekeeper knew something different was up? 

“You are in a mighty good mood this morning,” Greta observed with her hands folded on her hips. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Claire replied instantly, hoping her voice wasn’t too high. Backing toward her wardrobe, she flashed the housekeeper a too innocent smile. “I guess it’s just one of those days! And, um, the nominations for Junior Prom Queen are being read out today.”

Yes, they were; Claire wasn’t lying. Under normal circumstances, those results would be all she’d be thinking about until they were read aloud in sixth period by Sydney Mackenzie, Shermer’s answer to Jane Pauley. Because of her father’s incredibly generous yearly donations, the school had been able to install miniature televisions in specific classrooms, each hanging suspended from the wall like hospital TVs. At certain times during the day, both the televisions and the PA system would play the school announcements. They used to be the *morning* announcements, read banally by some geek—‘Excuse me, a student in the D-Group’; Claire was adamant that she was going to try to better herself now that she’d glimpsed the reality behind her own reflection—over the loudspeaker. Field trips that required signatures. The day’s lunch menu. Upcoming school dance notices. PTA meetings. Etcetera. 

Sydney Mackenzie changed all that. The intrepid little redhead managed to reinvigorate Shermer’s floundering A.V. Club—before, it had been designated strictly for, eh, those in the D-Group—and injected some new blood by founding the school’s first ever news program—hosted by her, naturally. Her co-anchor was Mark Something. Good-looking guy. In an “I will totally grow up to become a vigilante” sort of way. 

Kind of like John, she mused with a grin as she pulled out the day’s apparel—plaid miniskirt that she’d probably get in trouble for later, a burgundy sweater, white lace hose, and a pair of oxfords. She had to continue to look her “part”. 

Now that she thought about it, she considered whilst tromping down the stairs, John wasn’t really the vigilante type. He didn’t strike her as the kind to *care* all that much…about most things. Vigilantes had to have a strong belief system to do what they did. A strong belief in a political stance. A strong belief in collective safety. A strong belief in justice. John wouldn’t be the kind of guy who went out of his way and put himself in danger just to make a point. 

‘Unless it was to make dope legal. Maybe.’ Claire snorted in amusement. That very thought would’ve had her rolling her eyes not four days earlier. 

Crazy how much things had changed in so short amount of time. 

The Princess trod into the capacious kitchen—practically skipped into the capacious kitchen—which was designed as a country kitchen with plenty of modern appliances for the Standishes’ everyday needs. A top-of-the-line microwave. An electric-powered stove. A two-door refrigerator with a built-in freezer and ice cube dispenser. Her mother’s beloved cappuccino machine. 

Asking Chef Francesco to make those crepes she’d longed for the other day—just before everything changed—Claire poured herself a glass of not from concentrate orange juice and pulled out a chair at the kitchen table, all the while humming Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart” under her breath. It’d been playing as her radio alarm went off that morning. 

Nora, seated slouched in the opposite chair with her blonde hair hanging tiredly in her eyes and her face free of makeup, pursed her lips. “You’re in a good mood this morning.” 

The way her mother phrased it, the thought sounded more an accusation than a statement of fact. 

“Just…have a song stuck in my head,” she muttered as an excuse whilst Chef Francesco placed her plate of steaming raspberry-lemon crepes before her. Definitely did *not* want to alert her mother yet—‘Hopefully never. Can I get away with that?’—to the presence of a…John in her life. She didn’t even know what to call him, yet. 

“Hmm,” Nora murmured, the chary expression not leaving her face. ‘Great.’ 

Hopefully, her mother would forget this moment when lost in a sidecar coma later. 

Richard came thundering down the stairs, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as usual, and asked his daughter if she was ready to go. Claire pushed her plate away with her crepes only half-eaten. 

At school, on the top of the Pyramid, her gaze frequently wandered to where the “misfits” of Shermer hung around—the edges of the courtyard. The last thing she wanted was to seem too eager or whatever—her previous “lessons” when it came to boys screaming at her—but she couldn’t rightly help herself. Her orbs would scan through the spiked hair and spiked collar denizens of the school, intermingling with each other along the periphery. She thought she recognized one of them from a class or two. But no John. 

“—and I swear, it was *this* big!” Benny held her index finger and thumb a few inches apart, and the Luder twins recoiled in disgust. Claire, of course, was barely paying any attention. Amanda was chatting with Hardy Jenns, and Sloane was tangled up—quite literally—with Ferris Bueller. Megan Hicks was busy with her newest boy-toy from the swim team. Vanessa Parker was doing her nails. 

“Ugh, not again. Hel-*lo*, Earth to Claire, come in, Claire!”

Blinking, Claire haltingly and reluctantly turned her attention from the C-Group. Benny, her long blonde hair falling over her shoulders in thick waves, scowled at her with narrowed eyes. One, Claire noticed, was smudged, but no one would dare tell Benny Hanson that her makeup was not perfect. 

“Sorry,” Claire tittered, although she was anything but. “Um, I thought I saw someone I knew. What were we talking about?”

Benny rolled her blue eyes heavenward. “Only the huge, disgusting *zit* on Martha Dumptruck’s nose this morning.” 

Martha Dumptruck—once Benny’s best friend, now rendered an object of mockery due to her less than svelte figure. Her real surname was Dolan, but everyone called her Martha Dumptruck because, well, that was obvious. Poor girl could only fit in long shorts or sweatpants now. Claire had heard that she had a thyroid issue, but that did not stop the masses from giggling at her mere presence.

Claire glanced off, off, off to the side, where the D-Group congregated. And Martha Dumptruck was *definitely* D-Group. Hell, she may have been E-Group, if one existed. She redefined “outsider”, but she never snuck in through the school’s side doors like most did. Instead, she lingered under the same oak tree every morning, possibly hoping to strike up a conversation with someone. Anyone. 

It was actually kind of sad, and not in a funny way. For the first time, regarding Martha Dumptruck didn’t cause her to erupt in laughter but instead had her feeling…sorry for the girl. She only wanted to make friends. That was all. 

Claire observed her across the courtyard digging into a box of Lucky Charms cereal. That would not help her zit. 

‘Maybe I can make her over like I did Allison,’ she mused. ‘Or give her tips or something.’ Would that come off as condescending? 

“And why does she insist on that ugly hairstyle?” Stacy Luder whined, bringing Claire back from mental picture of dusting Martha Dumptruck’s face in powder to hide that zit. 

“It’s, like, Brillo-Pad,” Tracy Luder giggled, backing up her sister. 

Benny’s gaze was boring into the side of Claire’s face, her eyes twin knives. She could feel the tingling where her stare was leaving a virtual hole in her skin, and she gulped. “Don’t you agree, *Claire*?” 

“Y—yeah,” she laughed pathetically. The invisible mirror in her mind flashed; she could see herself in its reflection. Beyond, over the Mind-Claire’s shoulder, the accustomed form of Martha Dumptruck—Dolan—appeared, frowning. Looking distressed. But resolute. “Major Brillo-Paddage.” 

‘Oh, how much do I loathe you?’ Claire mentally sneered in Benny Hanson’s direction. 

No more than she loathed how easily the girl could manipulate her. And how weak-willed Claire herself was. ‘You don’t have the guts to stand up to your friends and tell them you’re gonna like who you wanna like!’ 

No, she did not, and this interlude proved it. For all Claire knew, Martha was a wonderful person. Perhaps they had stuff in common. A shared love of horror movies, maybe. She had glimpsed Martha at Suncoast in the Shermer Hills Mall a few times perusing the horror section. And, later, Claire could help her find fashionable attire that fit her well…

But that would never happen. Because she couldn’t find it within herself to stand up to the likes of Benny Hanson and her ilk. 

She did not deserve a guy like John. ‘I should be stuck with the Eric Fieldings of the world.’ 

Mumbling an excuse about needing to haul ass to the ladies’ and change her tampon, Claire rushed inside the school ten minutes before the first bell. A scream that sounded suspiciously like Benny’s echoed in her ears, but she paid it no mind. Heading straight for the nearest bathroom, Claire permitted herself a lost moment to sniffle in one of the stalls before crossing to the sinks and touching up her makeup in the mirror. It wouldn’t due to look all red-eyed, to wear the evidence of her true feelings on her face. The Princess bade herself smile, straightened her sweater, and darted out of the bathroom just before the first bell. 

She had some class materials to exchange at her locker. And do her lip gloss in the compact hanging in her locker door. In full view of everyone. She had an image to maintain.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: "Flipped upside down"--I know y'all have the Fresh Prince theme stuck in your heads now and I am sorry xD
> 
> Note 2: In case anyone forgot, Stubbie is supposed to be "played" by William Zabka. I have 80s appropriate face-claims for all the majors from the last story, I'll do the same with this one, though I may just add a list because I don't have Adobe on this 'puter.
> 
> Note 3: The freckled, redheaded jock is meant to look like The Great Hambino from The Sandlot lol I even called him Ham
> 
> Note 4: The old abandoned school where the cast and crew shot TBC is now a police station. They get a lot of fans of the movie wanting to tour the place. I'm jealous and wish I lived closer to Chicago lol
> 
> Note 5: Jewelry Design is a legit class; I took I and II xD and yes I got many a solder burn. My teacher, Ms. Jayson, told me that my jewelry was "art deco and avante garde". I just thought it was ugly
> 
> Note 6: I made up Sydney Mackenzie. Mark Something is Mark Hunter/Christian Slater from "Pump Up the Volume". xD I'm sure his version of co-anchoring the student news station is...interesting 
> 
> Note 7: Obvs, Martha Dumptruck is directly air-lifted out of "Heathers".
> 
> Note 8: Benny was sort of subservient and even a tad bit afraid of Claire in the first story. The abrupt change in "hierarchy" will be explained soon enough.


	9. Chapter 4: Manic Monday (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pauses between chapters may be a bit longer than the first go around as I don't have anything pre written, as I had with We All Gotta Grow Up Sometime. I promise I'm writing every day or two tho

Chapter 4: Manic Monday, Part 2

A part of John Bender couldn’t truly believe that he was actually in class today. A Monday. He didn’t even have Shop! And said class was frigging U.S. Government—completely boring and, in Bender’s estimation, entirely useless. Furthermore, the class itself was taught by the equally dull Mr. Banks. 

Yet, he knew why he was here—at Shermer High, in stupid U.S. Government being presided over by stupid 100-year-old Mr. Banks. 

Why guys did anything even remotely uncharacteristic and foolish—a girl. 

And not just any girl. None of the few in his wallet (would he need to dump those pictures?) who attended Shermer High. Not Holly, not Miranda, not Ashley. 

Claire-frigging-Standish. 

He was here today because of *her*. He was putting himself through banal hell to catch a glimpse of her presence, knowing that he shared this particular class with her. 

He couldn’t help himself. He *had* to see her…before their scheduled rendezvous in the closet at lunch. 

Sitting in the too small desk in the too overpopulated classroom (thirty kids in all, that was insane; who was clamoring to take U.S. Government? Maybe Soviet spies.), John shifted in his chair, feeling, like last night, his pants suddenly not fitting quite right. They planned to meet up in that same janitors’ closet at noon to do…stuff. Fun stuff. The vivid memory of her soft lips on his own had him nearly panting. Like a fucking dog in heat. 

Beside him, Ty—who’d also been conned into this class—stared askance at him (John could always fucking *feel* when his buddy turned that circumspect gawk on him; he was fantastic with that shit and would likely make a pretty good Bad Cop), looked him up and down—from his fiddling leg perched on the other one’s knee to his constant shifting in his seat to the nervous rubbing of the back of his neck—and quirked a dark brow. “The hell is wrong with you, Bender? You been bitten by a mosquito or somethin’?” 

He kind of wished he *had* just been nabbed by a mosquito. That was easier to explain away than…what was really going on. Not that much was going on yet…

“These desks are too damn small,” he muttered as an excuse. 

Ty shook his head. “You must’ve gotten into some bad dope, man. Just the fact that you’re actually in class is fucking shocking.” A long, slow blink. “Why the hell *are* you here, anyway? This ain’t Shop, and Mr. Banks is about as exciting as watching bread rise.” 

John coughed anxiously. Why was he here? Simple. To see a chick he was into. 

But it wasn’t like he could tell Ty that. Not yet. Not when he didn’t even know where, exactly, he stood with her. 

‘Shit. I really do sound like such a fucking girl.’ Next, he’d be hopping into The Limited and giggling over magazine shoots of the guys in Duran Duran. 

A part of him, that same part that couldn’t believe he was here in the first place, really hated himself. Allowing himself to go this gaga over a girl, one he barely knew, at that. But, she’d gotten under his skin on Saturday, and just when he thought he’d never see her again, she absolutely blew his mind on Sunday. 

She liked him. *Him*! Some working class schmuck who couldn’t afford her fancy French restaurants and amazingly rare imported vehicles if his life depended on it. Someone who’d let loose on her on Saturday and made her cry…all because he was pissed about, like, everything. His ma falling off the wagon. His dad being…his dad. Pondering what physical scar would appear in his skin today. Pondering what would set the man off… 

Despite all that, she still seemed to see *something* in him, though for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what that was. What, precisely, had he, John Bender, done to deserve the attentions of a girl like Claire-frigging-Standish? What had he done to deserve her kiss at the end of that horrible/amazing Saturday? What had he done to deserve the diamond fucking stud in his ear that was worth more than his own existence? 

Fuck him if he knew. He wasn’t about to look a gift-horse in the mouth, however. 

Right away, upon Claire entering the classroom, he noticed something was up. Having been the instigator of her tears in the past, he was familiar with the signs of Upset Claire. Eyes reddened, deep gouges shallowly covered up with that flesh-toned shit that smelled like chalk, brow perpetually furrowed. 

She appeared to smile genuinely when she saw him, though, which was something. He guessed. She claimed the open desk right in front of his. 

He wanted to ask her what was wrong but also was wary of alerting Ty that he suddenly gave a shit about Claire Standish’s *feelings*. He knew his friend’s eyes were on him, so he remained where he was. 

Instead, he scrawled her a half-assed note and slipped it on her desk when Ty wasn’t looking, pretending to get up to throw something out. In his usual dark, all capitalized scratch, he asked—

‘WHAT’S UP? YOU ALRIGHT?’

His eyes were not flicking to her back as she read the missive and authored a reply. Not at all. 

Of course, it was in loopy purple ink. And folded up a zillion times. And somehow, it was scented. 

‘Nothing. I’m fine, really.’ 

Hell *no* was John going to accept that. What was it with girls insisting they were “fine” when they really weren’t? And then getting pissed when guys dropped the conversation? Rolling his eyes, hoping Ty was still distracted staring like a lunatic at one of the many Heathers in this class, John hastily scrawled a response and slipped it in her palm. 

‘REALLY NOW? CUZ YOU CAME IN HERE LOOKING LIKE SOME1 RAN OVER YOUR CAT.’

Claire snorted in what he perceived to be entertainment. At least he’d made her laugh and she wasn’t totally lost in her melancholy, the source for it currently unknown to him. He didn’t like that someone had made her cry. Hell, *he* had made her cry just this Saturday, and he was still killing himself for it. 

He absolutely did not watch whilst she tore another piece of paper out of her notebook, wrote a riposte with that damn furry purple pen (seriously, what kind of writing instrument was *furry*? And contained a feather at the end?), and dropped it on his desk behind hers, feigning a yawn. 

John quickly scooped it up once he ascertained his friend’s continued ignorance. 

‘Just…you know, my crowd and stuff. I’ll tell you more later. Are we still on for the closet?  
PS: I don’t have a cat.’ 

All but tearing open the stupidly folded and folded again note, John felt himself momentarily getting angry at what she delineated as “her crowd”, considered Benny Hanson, then nodded his head from side to side. If anyone could get the Princess’ goat, it was her. Shit, she annoyed the hell out of him too, and he’d never even spoken to her. ‘Thank fuck.’ 

He permitted a grin when he read the post-script. Which Ty managed to catch. Elbowing him in the side, Ty mouthed ‘What the fuck?’, and John, the hairs on the back of his neck at attention, gestured wordlessly to Vernon entering the classroom. 

When he took the vice principal in, clad in his usual leisure suit—this one being all black, like he was a fucking widower in mourning in the 1800s—Ty mimicked his smirk. 

John expelled a breath of relief. Good thing he hadn’t seen the note; it was very evidently written by a chick. No dude had swirly handwriting or used a purple pen. 

Vernon closed the heavy classroom door behind him, not looking very pleased at all. Then again, that *was* his default expression. Striding to the middle of the front of the room, the man folded his arms over his chest. “All right. Mr. Banks is absent today, so I’ve been, ahem, *asked* to fill in for him.”

“Asked.” As in, “ordered to”. Most likely by Rooney. John allowed another grin. ‘Oh, boy. Oh, boy, Oh, boy!’ 

He had irritated Vernon in Saturday detention. He had irritated Vernon during the school day. But he had never had an opportunity to irritate Vernon in a packed classroom.

Innocently—too innocently—the rodent man crossed the room toward Mr. Banks’ desk, perched in a corner, and picked up a piece of paper off the desktop. John realized pretty quickly it was an attendance sheet. And his name wouldn’t be very far down. 

‘Oh, boy. Oh, boy. Oh, BOY!’ This was his idea of a real party. 

“All right. Karen Avery, Thomas Ayala, Patricia Barnes…” 

As his classmates all piped up with “heres”—other than Jenna Barnett, who was absent, whoever the hell she was; John wasn’t exactly familiar with many of his fellow peers—John leaned back in his too small desk with his hands pillowed behind his head. Not at all. It wouldn’t be long at all until the dude came upon his name. 

“Anna Beisel, Kenneth Bellington, Gerald Belsinger, John—“ 

Yep. John knew it even before his name was called out. Vernon’s bland expression quickly flashed to one of surprised disbelief, the skin of his face paled, and his eyes grew as wide as flying saucers. He spat the rest of John’s moniker as though his mouth was suddenly filled with adder’s poison. 

“Johnathon *Bender*. Tate Bennett. Ferris Bueller. Rhonda Carlo…” 

Oh, no. He wasn’t letting the man off *that* easily. Bender eagerly threw one arm in the air, fingers straightened to a point above his head. “Mr. Vernon, sir! I’m here, sir! And so is my good buddy, Tyson Carter.”

Up front, the man’s eyelids fluttered shut. In a clear voice, he added, “Yes, Mr. Bender, thank you.” Beneath his breath—“John Bender, Ferris Bueller, and Tyson Carter in one class. And I’m only on the Cs.” 

John and Ty cackled. A few rows over, sitting beside Keith Nelson, Ferris Bueller grinned. 

Queenie glanced at Bender over her shoulder. Noting her suppressed smile of amusement. 

Eventually, he finished taking attendance and gently set the sheet aside. John watched with a critical eye whilst Vernon began handing out yet more paper, class assignments, most like. Busy work. He wasn’t going to let *that* off easily, either. 

John raised his hand straight up in the air and waved it around like an eager-beaver teacher’s pet. 

Vernon sighed very audibly at the front of the room and massaged his closed his eyes with two fingers. “Yes, Mr. Bender?”

Folding his glove-clad hands atop his desk—the one that always stank of Lysol, into which he’d once carved “Not Saved”, the saying on the black pin he always wore affixed to his glove—like a good little boy, Bender said, in a disdainfully pleasant tone, “Gee, Mr. Vernon! I certainly don’t want to tell you how to teach. But shouldn’t you, you know, *teach*? I’d *hate* to lose all the precious information Mr. Banks tirelessly educated us on because he happens to be absent!” 

Pfft. Like Bender could recall even one thing Banks had said this semester so far. Other than the sound of his monotonous, grating voice. ‘He and Mr. Stein should be blood brothers.’ 

The class tittered, including Claire…and some friend of hers who sat next to her. He thought her name was Vanessa, he didn’t know for sure. The names of the A-Group all sounded the same to him.

Ty was cackling the loudest, though.

Up front, still clutching the remainder of the classwork bullshit, Vernon went red in the face. Ah, that made this whole thing worth it—feigning like he gave a shit about this class in the first place. He knew Vernon sometimes filled in as substitute for indiscriminate classes when the school couldn’t find a legitimate sub—or didn’t have time to find one—and John was making it his mission to uncover that schedule. 

In the desk beside his, Ty also raised his hand. “Uh, Mr. Vernon, sir? I agree. We’ve got a test coming up, and I’d *hate* to fail it because of this. Might have to tell my folks.”

To his shock, Queenie briefly let her pink-tipped hand hover, as well. Maybe Vanessa stared at her in disbelief. “I agree, too, sir. I still have my notes if you need help…” 

The wonderfully fake smile she flashed the vice principal made him grin. Ty was gawking at the back of Claire’s head. His buddy looked as though he did not truly know if she was in on the joke or not…or if she just wanted to continue yesterday’s lesson. 

But Bender knew. He knew well where she stood. 

Vernon’s expression was quickly replaced with one of irate offense. Dude looked like a cross between genuinely angry and simply constipated. Bender guffawed into his palm, then pretended to cough in order to cover it up when the man glared at him. 

“I don’t need ‘help’!” Vernon yelled. “I can teach this class just fine, thank you, missy!” Expedient, he walked to the desk in the corner and searched all the drawers until he found Mr. Banks’ lesson plan. “Says here that you all were discussing…vocabulary on Friday, is that correct?” 

Maybe Vanessa, in an apparent desire to look “cool” to Claire, lifted her hand. “Yes, sir, Mr. Vernon!”

Queenie glanced askance at her, smiled momentarily, but did not add anything else. 

“Okay, um—“ Dick was intensely looking down at the lesson plan like he was studying IKEA directions; How to Build A Snylflööm. “Can anyone tell me what ‘appellee’ means?” A pause and then, with a cleared throat—“Mr. *Bender*?”

John frowned. What the hell did that have to do with the gub’ment? ‘Unless Reagan and his Cabinet get a mite puckish, I guess.’ “Er, well. They have that new low-fat menu for the calorie conscious. And they make a mean margarita, but—“ 

The class erupted in laughter. John wasn’t sure if it was *at* him or *with* him. 

The beam Claire flashed him over her shoulder was enough to turn his frown upside down. He felt himself smiling like a dope. Jesus, was this part of being really into a chick, too? Not just second-guessing every word she said, but grinning like an idiot whenever she looked in his fucking direction? 

He was turning in to such a corny lameoid freak. And he’d only really known her for three days!

Vernon exhaled another loud, put-upon sigh and smacked the lesson plan against his thigh. “*Appellee*, Mr. Bender, not “*Applebee’s*!” 

‘What’s the difference?’ Fuck, was he behind in this course. 

No matter. He was behind in every course. Except Shop.

Ty was guffawing and slapping his bicep. “Hey. Applebee’s can be a pertinent vocab word, sir. I’m sure they got one in D.C.!” 

If Reagan was partaking in those one-dollar Margarita Mondays, that would sure explain a few things…

…crap. His old man’s political opinions were getting to him. The fuck did he care? Both parties were full of assholes, in his book. Someone from one party did this thing and it was bad. Someone else from the other party did the same thing and it was suddenly okay. Hypocritical bullshit. 

Alan Pinkard, that kiss-ass, raised his hand. He was sitting perfectly straight-backed in his desk, his dark hair way too gelled. Looking like a freaking Catholic schoolboy in his navy and green plaid pants. Or like one of those old man golfers who wore their trousers beneath their armpits. “An appellee is the defendant or respondent in an appellate court proceeding.” Pinkard shot John a purely pompous teacher’s pet sneer before turning back to Dick like the brownie hound he was. “One against whom an appeal is taken.”

‘Jesus fucking Christ. Is he a walking dictionary or what?’

In front of him, Claire scoffed. It seemed she had no love lost for Pinkard, either. 

Vernon nodded, releasing a breath of riposte. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Pinkard. At least *someone* in this class has done his homework.”

Alan Pinkard sat up even straighter in his seat, positively glowing with the praise. John wanted to kick his self-important ass. There was no one in this school who had a more punchable face than Alan Pinkard. 

“Moving on. Can anyone tell me what the electoral college does?” 

This time, Ferris Bueller lifted his hand. “It’s the completely unnecessary branch of reps from each state that basically vote for us. My dad goes on endlessly about them. Usually after a glass of Scotch or two.” 

The class broke up in laughter once more. 

Vernon emitted another put-upon sigh. “This is going to be a long class.”

Afterwards, as John was too innocently passing by Claire’s locker on the way outside—he was headed to the bleachers to smoke up with his buddies—he slipped a hurriedly scrawled note in through the vents.

“THE CLOSET AT NOON. B THERE OR B □.” 

Whistling the theme to “The Bridge on the River Kwai”, John glanced around him, from right to left to front and back, then, satisfied, moved on. 

He did not know that *someone* was peering at him through the nearest bathroom’s doorjamb. Eyeing him with suspicion.  
**

“I like her, dude.”

Back again in the cinema course, Andy peeked at Stubbie out the corner of his eye whilst Mrs. Van der Veer commenced her lecture on “Gone With the Wind”. Specifically, whether the book was better or not—not that anyone in class had *read* the book—the lackadaisical and whitewashed way the film portrayed the realities of slavery, and…Clark Gable’s new teeth. 

Andy’s mom would be brokenhearted to learn that those chompers seen in the film weren’t his original teeth. 

“Hattie McDaniel, who played Mammy in the film, won an Oscar,” Mrs. Van der Veer was saying, slapping her open palm with her wooden pointer. “And she wasn’t even allowed through the front door at the premiere in Atlanta! How absurd is that?!”

Pretty damn absurd. It was unheard of today, an actor nominated for an Academy Award, to endure such humiliation. 

Andy idly flipped through his “American Cinema” text—a book they rarely used in class. “Yeah, well, keep your paws off, Marshall.”

Stubbie held aloft his hands, palm out, in surrender. “Hey, man, it’s just an observation. She’s cute but not exactly my type, know what I mean?”

“What, too young for ya?”

“Ha,” Stubbie drawled, briefly setting eyes on the flickering pull-down screen at the front of the room. Scarlett was approaching the doctor about Melanie’s forthcoming babe. “But yes.”

Andy rolled his eyes. “Knew it. If she was Ms. Tyler…” 

His friend leaned back in his desk, hands pillowing his head. “Then, all bets would be off, bro. That woman is *fine*!”

Andy had to laugh—quietly, so Mrs. Van der Veer wouldn’t smack them with a demerit. The jocks were quite fortunate to only have to take the easiest classes. Aside from American Cinema, he also had Paint and Acrylics, Basket-weaving, and Stitching on his schedule. His Basket-weaving teacher, Mrs. Moray, was kind of a hard-ass, surprisingly. But he definitely did not want to give up that cushy seat. He knew that his fellow athletes on the bowling and golf teams couldn’t get away with taking the easy route through high school. 

“So, where’d you meet ‘er?” Stubbie asked in a whisper. 

“Detention on Saturday,” Andy explained, both wincing at the reason he’d been there in the first place and smiling at the mental projection of Ally’s face, no longer hidden behind her thick curtain of hair. 

Stubbie snorted. “You mean the one you got for assaulting Larry Lester.”

Andy cringed once more. He had never thought of what he’d done to the kid as assault, or maybe something in him shied away from the word. His father classified it as “screwing around”, but what he’d done…he put his hands on the guy without his consent. He definitely assaulted him. “Yeah,” he admitted, still cringing. 

“I hope you apologized to him.”

The Sport nodded, though the grimace continued. “Yeah, today in gym. I tried to on Friday, but he, uh, wasn’t in class.”

Stubbie pursed his lips. “Do you blame him?” 

Andy shook his head. He definitely could not blame him. Shit, if the tables were turned, if *he’d* been Larry Lester that day, jumped on and tackled to the ground and…taped…he’d never attend gym class again. He’d request a study hall or something. 

Owning up and apologizing hadn’t been easy, not at all, but Andy followed through. Wasn’t that what his coach always barked at him, repeatedly? Follow through, always follow through, Clark. He could hear Hendrix, the coach of the wrestling team, in his head now, see his perpetually reddened face and full head of gray hair. With that credo in mind, he’d approached Larry Lester. Larry had moved his gym locker from the seventh row near his own to the first, at the front of the boys’ locker room. He couldn’t blame him for *that*, either.

Determined but anxious, Andy tapped Larry on his (still skinny, weak; “He’s a bum, Andrew! A loser! What do we do to losers in this family?!”) shoulder, and the kid—who was the same age as Andy himself was, but he could not stop seeing him or referring to him as a kid—spun around, half dressed in his gym uniform. 

Larry blanched milk white instantly upon glimpsing Andy, which made him feel like shit all over again. Holding his hands palm-out in surrender, he placated, “I come in peace, I swear.” 

Skinny, hairy, curly-haired Larry Lester’s pasty complexion became…slightly less pasty. Andy figured “washed-out” was how he usually looked. “Wh—what do you want?” 

In his mind’s eye, Andy pictured Brian in Larry’s place. A dork, sure, but someone he had come to respect and even call a friend. A person he never in a million years would’ve deigned to acknowledge before Saturday. Andy grimaced once more. ‘Jesus. I never realized how much of a shit I was.’ “I, uh, just want to apologize. You know, for…” 

How the hell did one even summarize what he’d done? He’d hurt the kid, yes, but he also humiliated him. Andy wondered if Larry had actually revealed all to his own father. And what the man said or did if he had. 

Up went one of Larry’s bushy brown eyebrows. “…knocking me to the floor and taping my butt cheeks together?”

Andy felt the back of his neck flush. “Uh, yeah, that. I promise, it had nothing whatsoever to do with you personally. I’m, um, sorry.” 

He’d let his old man get to him. Even now, he could hear the asshole in his head, shouting at him, insisting he was a loser, a pussy, that he *needed* to show this kid who was boss. “Screw around” for daring to use “that tone” with him, Andrew Clark, Star Wrestler. Andy shook it off; he would *not* let the old man in, not now, not today. 

Larry bobbed his head, clearly cautious. Wanting to show him he was genuine, Andy stuck out his hand, hoping Larry would take it, understanding if he didn’t. But he did! Tentatively, but he did return the gesture. That had to mean something, at least. 

“Well, thanks,” Larry said, taking back his hand and shoving it into one of the pockets of his gym shorts. “Means a lot. That you apologized and all.” 

Andy cringed and pulled at the sweatband wrapped around his wrist. A nervous habit he’d picked up on the mat. “Yeah, well. What I did was real shitty. And, uh, looked painful. After.”

‘Stupid.’ The whole episode was painful! He was really killing this apology. 

Larry shrugged those skinny white shoulders. “Eh. Wasn’t that bad. And I got to skip gym, so…” 

Andy chuckled, inwardly relieved that he didn’t seem to be holding a grudge. Made him a better man than most, he knew. Checking the science text book under his arm, he said, “We’ve started the Square Dance unit, you didn’t miss much. I’m gonna sit out the class entirely today and try to…study. Big Bio test coming up.” 

He didn’t know why he divulged that information to Larry Lester of all people, but the words were out now. Bio, one of the few classes he was required to take—that wasn’t a throwaway course like Basket-waving 101. And his teacher, Mr. Lane, took no prisoners and gave no shits. 

Larry gazed down at his “Human Biology and Animal Science” textbook. “Ah. I took that class last year. Mr. Lane—a real hard-ass, isn’t he?” 

“You’re not kidding there,” Andy agreed, picturing the tall, reedy old man who never smiled. Not once. 

Larry shrugged. “I can help, if you want. I mean, with studying and stuff.”

“Really?” He was surprised. He would’ve figured that Larry Lester would not want to be in the same room with him again. Ever. And here he was offering to *help*. 

He nodded once. “Sure. Square Dancing does not sound like my forte, anyway.”

So, Andy had spent an entirely surreal third period seated on the auxiliary gymnasium bleachers with the very kid he’d tormented with his old man in mind, listening to his every word as he orated…science-y things. For forty whole minutes. And, by the time Bio and the dreaded test rolled around by fifth period, he’d damn near aced the thing. A true first for him. 

Andy shook himself back to reality. Sitting there in the bleachers getting tutored by the kid he’d tortured not a week previous would stand out as one of the most surreal moments of his life. 

Mrs. Van der Veer glared at the two Sports suspiciously from her perch on her desk—literally *on top* of it, with her amazing legs crossed at the ankle, bare under her knee-length skirt except for a pair of black pumps; she was driving the guys in class nuts—and they straightened like they were at all paying attention to the movie. Andy had already watched this. Besides, it was historical, wasn’t it? They all knew that the Confederacy would fall. 

“So, how’d you meet her?” Stubbie queried out the corner of his mouth. 

Like an idiot, Andy asked “Who?” and Stubbie rolled his eyes. “Allison, duh! Stop paying attention to Vivien Leigh’s histrionics for two seconds.” 

Unbidden, a smile of—what? Contentment?—engulfed Andy’s features as his mind conjured pictures of Allison Reynolds. Beautiful Allison with her thick dark hair and her piercing eyes and her clear ivory skin. Talented Allison and her ability to sketch, like, anything. Thoughtful Allison who was deep but not pretentious about it, whom he could talk to uninterrupted for hours. Who understood him. *Him* as Andy, not as Andrew Clark, wrestler extraordinaire. Just Andy. 

Stubbie guffawed beside him. “Dude, you got it bad. I know that look. That’s the same look I wear when I stare at a picture of Ms. Tyler in the yearbook.” 

Andy pursed his lips. “You don’t even know her first name!”

“I know it begins with a B!” Stubbie crossed his enormous tree trunk arms over his blue baseball tee. 

Andy shook his head. ‘This is my best friend.’ “You’re nuts.”

“And *you* didn’t answer my question. How’d you meet Allison?”

Allison. Who’d started the day that Saturday shrouded in her generic black, head to toe, hiding behind her thick layer of black shit. And who’d ended the day…no longer ensconced in that persona. Allison. Whom he had spent that day getting to know…and liking her just as she was. Allison. Whose post Claire-over image had blown his mind. Just because she was no longer hiding. And she was…perfect. 

Andy snapped himself out of his reverie and scowled at his friend. “Saturday detention. You asked me that already, doofus!” 

“No, I asked you *how* you met her, not where,” Stubbie pointed out. “Did you just, like, break out the Superstud Wrestler and skeeze all over her while stuck in that library or what?”

The Sport huffed. “Of course not! That’s not…my thing, you know that!”

Stubbie shrugged. “Worked with Stacy Luder.” 

Andy grimaced. Stacy Luder—one of Claire’s posse. No, *Benny Hanson’s* posse; she was the undisputed “leader” of that whole group. He’d dated the blonde Luder twin for about two months—two months of his life he kind of wished he could get back. It didn’t take long for Andy to realize that Stacy had no substance, and she was mostly running around with him for the status snaps it brought her. Plus, her sister, Tracy, stuck to them like glue, which Stacy saw no problem with. Even the time she nabbed the backseat when he took Stacy out to a drive-in movie; now, that was awkward. 

They’d parted amicably enough. It was Benny Hanson herself he had to watch out for. She was crazy into him—no; she was crazy into Andrew Clark, Shermer High’s most celebrated wrestler. She had no idea who Andy really was. Nor did she care to find out. 

Didn’t stop her from virtually stalking him. She’d followed him home once last year. He'd caught her creeping around his mom’s boysenberry bushes. 

“And how did *that* turn out?” he parried. “Nah, it was a long day. We just…talked. Got to know each other.” 

“Old school, eh?”

Andy agreed. “Yeah, old school.” Whatever that meant. 

“Well, whatever. I like her,” Stubbie reaffirmed, uncrossing his arms and grinning. “What she did to Benny Hanson this morning was hilarious.” 

Andy, too, smirked in reflection. Benny had taken it upon herself to “befriend” any girl he was interested in—keep your friends close and your enemies closer and all that, that was basically her personal credo. This morning, he’d about had a heart attack thinking she recognized Allison as the black-clad “weird girl” who haunted the halls like a ghost in a very large coat. But she hadn’t. Instead, she claimed Allison as her “new best friend”. And Ally, in turn, complimented her hair and her headband…then suggested she spotted a bug in the blonde depths. Then another. And another. Benny screamed and cried, and as she was ushered to the nurse’s office, she kept mumbling about spiders. 

A mean trick? Maybe. But on Benny Hanson? Hysterical. 

Once more, he concurred, picturing Ally being escorted down to Hashpipe’s office by Vernon himself. “Wonder if Benny’s still with Nurse Heckerling.”

“Nah,” Stubbie drawled. “I bet she went home and washed the fuck out of her hair.”

The two boys laughed, and Mrs. Van der Veer glared at them again. Andy covered his outward entertainment with a cough but retained his smirk behind his palm. 

Allison Reynolds. Really something else.   
**

“Hi, I’m Joe!”

“And I’m Pam!”

“And we’re going to talk about a very important topic.”

“*Your* mental health!”

In Hashimoto’s small, square box of an office, Brian sat like a lump in one of the gray nylon chairs before the guidance counselor’s desk. In a corner, a rollaway television played a video Brian estimated to have been filmed sometime during the fifties, judging by the clothes and Joe’s and Pam’s insistence on using language like “Gee willickers!” and “Super keen!” 

This was not how he had imagined this day going. Not at all. 

“Golly, Joe!” the perpetually poodle-skirted and blonde haired (he guessed; it was difficult to tell, the video being entirely black and white) Pam exclaimed in a too perky voice. “I know that mental health is important, but I don’t know how to see to it!”

Dark haired Joe, in his slacks and letterman’s sweater, smiled a ping-y, toothpaste commercial grin and rested his curled fists on his hips. “Gosh, Pam, I sure am glad you asked!” ‘She *didn’t* ask, Joe.’ “There are many ways to monitor your mental health. Take a long bath. Read a book. Go to the movies. Nap. However you relax and unwind!” 

“Gee, Joe. But what happens if none of that works?” Poodle Skirt Pam had paused on her and Joe’s way to school—or from school, Brian couldn’t be sure—a binder stuffed under one arm and a confused look on her face. In the background, a jungle gym loomed. 

Joe nodded sagely. ‘Like he gives a single shit about mental health. Or this conversation.’ Whoever that actor was, who was now probably in his fifties, he wasn’t about to win any awards with this performance. “Then, you may need extra help. A physician called a psychiatrist! He is licensed to prescribe medication like Thorazine or the new antipsychotic, Prozac!” 

Jeez. This *had* to be old. His mom had been on Prozac since she was a teenager. 

‘Could explain a few things,’ Brian thought disingenuously. 

“If prescribed medication doesn’t work,” “Joe” continued in that same too cheery tone. “Your doctor may prescribe a lobotomy!”

‘Good grief, a lobotomy?! Doctors are still doing that?!’ 

The picture of the two fifties-era teens dissolved in lieu of a rather crudely drawn silhouette of a man in the prone position. From screen left emerged a sharp instrument…that jabbed right into the outlined man’s eye. Or rather, just above his eye but still under the lid. 

In his chair, Brian paled. Shifting uncomfortably, the Brain felt like he was ten seconds away from barfing all over Dr. Hashimoto’s weird spiral-patterned carpet. And he hadn’t even eaten anything since last night! 

‘Oh, God! I can’t believe this was a routine medical practice for years.’ Until Thorazine’s debut, really the first antipsychotic. 

Brian wanted to be a doctor when he was older, perhaps a neurologist, but he definitely didn’t want to do *that*. 

In voiceover, Joe continued in that bizarrely merry intonation of his. “A lobotomy, also called a leucotomy, requires the patient to be asleep while a trained physician—who may or may not be your psychiatrist—uses an instrument called an orbitoclast to sever the prefrontal cortex, the frontal lobe and the anterior, to treat more severe mental disorders. An orbitoclast is akin to an ice pick and was invented by Dr. Walter Freeman in 1948. He is known as the foremost physician on leucotomies. He performed the procedure in twenty-three states and is said to have racked up 2500 lobotomies!”

‘Ugh. This is *sick*.’ Brian lay his hand upon his stomach, feeling very queasy. 

The drawing of the unfortunate lobotomy-receiver vanished, and Joe and Pam were back. As was the jungle gym. Pam clutched at her chest in an overdramatic manner. “Gee whiz, Joe! That doesn’t sound pleasant.” ‘Yeah, no kidding.’ “I now know I need to take my mental health seriously!” 

Joe nodded and smiled. “That’s right, Pam! So, relax and take a nap! But not yet. ‘Cause we still have school, and Mrs. Hyde will be angry!”

Joe and Pam broke up in exaggerated laughter and literally skipped into their school. The last title card flashed “FINI” in loopy script. 

‘Thank God!’ Brian cried in his mind, wishing to run to the nearest toilet. 

Dr. Hashimoto, who’d been standing beside the rollaway with his arms crossed and a bored expression on his face, reached to turn off the video. Out popped a VHS from the VCR. 

“Well,” the guidance counselor said. “Any questions?”

Brian shook his head. He absolutely did *not* have any questions. 

“Good,” Dr. Hashimoto said, looking a mite discomfited himself. He returned to his desk and, once he sat down in his (much more comfortable) chair, folded his hands atop it. “Now. To the inkblots. Tell me what you see in this one.”

Aloft, he held a cardboard image of spotted nonsense that vaguely resembled, ahm, the female reproductive system. 

Brian felt the back of his neck heating. This was going to be a long appointment.

**  
Lunchtime, fifth period. 

At the usual A-Group table in the middle of the cafeteria, Claire gathered all her props—low fat bran muffin, can of Coke, books required for next period. Her normal, everyday lunch (she rarely consumed an actual meal in school, paranoid about being judged by what she put in her mouth ever since Joey Martinez in the fifth grade laughed at her for partaking in Pizza Day just as a giant mega zit was growing smack dab in the middle of her forehead). Not that Claire would be needing any of this today. Well, maybe the books. Maybe. 

Staring at the clock on the wall above the slushie bar for the nth time, Claire felt her pulse racing in nervous excitement. She was due to meet John in the janitors’ closet in—another glance—ten minutes. She’d barely have time to duck into the ladies’ room beside the caf entrance doors for a quick touchup and maintenance check if she didn’t leave, like, *now*. 

Just as she was about to say “Screw this” and completely eschew proper manners—the lessons learned in Mrs. Wishaw’s cotillion classes were difficult to ignore—Benny and her two lapdogs, the Luder twins, returned from the lunch line brandishing matching plastic trays. Benny had no problems eating in front of people, probably because she never gained a frigging ounce no matter what she ate. 

‘So unfair!’ 

“Ugh,” Benny grumbled as she slammed her tray on top of the table, painted to resemble wood but not really being carved of wood. She sank down in one of the caf’s blue plastic chairs, the Luder twins flanking her on either side. “That line took forever.”

“Forever,” Stacy and Tracy echoed in unison. It was creepy. ‘That’s some Grady sisters in “The Shining” shit.’ 

Claire once more ticked her gaze toward the clock. Benny prattled on obliviously. “I mean, seriously! How hard is it to open a second line? Duh! Oh, my *God*, Claire, stop zoning out, would you?! It’s annoying. Not to mention totally disrespectful.”

‘Yeah, I’m totally disrespecting your need to constantly hear yourself talk.’ Benny Hanson was the last person in the world to wax poetic on maligning others. 

Claire forced her lips to stretch into a semblance of a smile. It felt more like the expression she made when she really had to pee. “Unh, sorry. Um, I’m visiting with Aunt Flo, remember? I’m a little…wiggy today. Speaking of which, I *really* gotta hang ten to the ladies’.”

Sloane and Megan traded glances across the table. “Again?” Sloane asked. “You must be having a heavy day.” 

Claire nodded with an exaggerated huff. “To the max. I’ll, uh, be back.”

‘No, I won’t.’ 

“Whatever,” Benny sneered, rising to her feet. She gazed down at the offerings on her tray—a flaccid burger, a badly mixed slushie, and a side of circumspect-looking corn—and grimaced. “I’m getting cheese fries.” And, with a flounce of her hair and her skirt, she trotted off to the slightly shorter lunch line. 

Taking pains not to jog across the cafeteria, Claire ducked out the double doors and into the ladies’ lavatory. She wrinkled her nose as soon as she crossed the door jamb; this particular bathroom always, *always* lingered the same peculiar odor of…poopy flowers. Stepping up to the mirror over the sink, she hurriedly wet her hair to rein in the flurries—she wished she had access to Allison’s enormous bag right now; she must’ve had hair spray in there somewhere—sprayed herself with her favorite vanilla eau de parfum, and, the piece de resistance, slicked her lips with cherry-flavored lip gloss. 

Then, satisfied, she made her way down the hall and catty-corner to the guidance offices, where the library was. Off to the left-hand side was another, skinnier corridor. A darker corridor. Where the maintenance closets were kept.

The particular closet Vernon had stashed John in on Saturday was shut. Claire briefly considered knocking, then told herself not to be a spazoid and just go in. 

John was already there when she turned the knob with slippery, nervous hands and walked in, in the exact same position he’d been in on Saturday. Sitting on the floor, arms crossed over his Guns and Roses band tee. That same smirk, too, bloomed across his face when she entered. He looked good, with his hair down and wild, pushed back with the sunglasses he didn’t need. Claire’s lips tingled and her palms grew clammier. Uncertain how to proceed, she leaned back against the door as she had done on Saturday, trying to hide her anxiety. She wasn’t used to being alone with boys. In the past, her interactions with the opposite sex had generally been very public. They were meant to be *seen*. Definitely not heard. 

He approached her slowly, as though she were an easily frightened antelope to his confident lion. She supposed it was an apt analogy. 

“Didn’t know if you were comin’,” he remarked. His tone was nonchalant, but the spark that alit in his eyes at her appearance told her that he was glad she was there. 

“I had to give Benny and her minions the slip,” Claire explained. She couldn’t exactly confess to him that she’d been thinking about this moment all day. ‘I’d sound like an obsessive freak.’ Reaching into the pocket of her skirt, she pulled out a folded piece of ripped notebook paper and held it aloft. “Got your note. The square was a nice touch.” 

John shrugged. “Ah, the precious milliseconds I saved not writing out ‘square’!” 

Claire giggled, but her laugh abruptly petered out as he moved closer. Again, the frightened antelope and lion parallel came to mind. But she wouldn’t permit herself to shrink under his intense gaze.

“Still looks the same,” she remarked inanely, vaguely gesturing with her hand. “I—I mean, from Saturday.”

John gazed over his shoulder, looking way more relaxed than she felt. And why not? ‘He probably does this all the time. With all his Considered Girls’. Claire’s eyes narrowed, and her brows formed a determined, if slightly perturbed, V. She was not just some stammering prude, she was Claire Standish, damnit! Where the hell was all the brazenness she’d experienced yesterday? When she’d basically initiated all the “moves”? Now, in the light of day back once again in this congested hidey-hole, she felt, well, like exactly what she was—an inexperienced virgin. 

“Yeah,” he agreed with a snort, turning back to her. “Janitors here don’t have much use for their own equipment, I see. Naturally, it’s better to clean up vomit on the floor with one of Dick’s ties.”

Claire found herself laughing again in spite of her nervousness. This right here, *that* was one of the major reasons she liked John Bender so much—he could make her laugh even when she was feeling, eh, not exactly in the chuckling mood. He could also extremely piss her off within the same sentence. She’d never known a boy like that before, who could make her experience these two distinct concentrated extremes in one fell swoop. 

Heck, in all of her past relationships, she rarely felt any emotion other than complacence at the least and absolute boredom at the most. 

Her second bout of laughter was enough of an icebreaker, it seemed, because, of its own volition, her head was tilting up toward his, much as it had done at the end of the day on Saturday, and his grin was lowering toward hers, and in a second, their lips met—and for the third time, Claire could feel that spark. That electric jolt at the base of her spine that made her want to pop a leg like in those old-timey Turner Classic Movies she’d once watched with her father. Claire could totally see herself as an ingénue. 

John, though, not so much. ‘He’d have to cut his hair, at the least.’ She highly doubted he’d go for that—and she didn’t entirely want him to. She rather liked that she could bury her fingers in his hair; she hadn’t been able to with anyone else. Too much gel. 

Then, Claire felt his lips and teeth and tongue on that one certain spot on the side of her neck that drove her crazy, and she abruptly forgot what she’d been thinking about. 

She couldn’t believe how nervous she’d been. As soon as his smile touched hers, all of the anxiety just sort of…melted away. Like snowflakes dripping off your fingertips once you breached the safety and warmth of a conveniently placed hearth. Claire wound both arms around his neck, plunging into the ends of his soft hair past his collar, and John groaned against her lips. 

‘Hmm. I must be doing something right. *Something*.’ 

When he rested his hands on her hips and gently massaged the skin there, she thought that she’d burst into flame. 

Definitely a new sensation for Claire Standish. She had never liked a boy enough to garner a physical reaction. 

And boy, was John lighting a physical reaction in her. After only a few kisses. 

Claire was in a fog—a particularly pleasant fog. Nothing else mattered but them and the indescribable feeling of his lips—on her mouth, on her neck, on her collarbone. Their respective friends didn’t matter. Benny *certainly* didn’t matter. Upcoming classes didn’t matter. Parents didn’t matter. Claire was enshrouded in a cloud of hands and lips and John’s own unique essence, which was something of a mix of tobacco and sandalwood. 

Jeez, she hoped she had remembered to put on deodorant this morning. 

It wasn’t until he backed her up against the far wall a wee bit too hard that she was jolted back to reality. Claire raised her hand to the back of her head where it had bounced against the wall and massaged the sore spot. “Ow.” 

“…shit,” he swore, picking his head up from where it’d been behind her ear. She liked *that*, too. “Eh, sorry. I swear, I did not mean to do that.” 

Whilst rubbing her head, Claire erupted in a spell of giggles. She couldn’t help it. This wasn’t exactly the most, erm, *romantic* spot, surrounded on all sides by mops and buckets and errant school supplies. That, combined with the deer caught in the headlights look on John’s face was enough to elicit tears of mirth, spilling down her cheeks. 

When he understood that she wasn’t seriously hurt, John’s mouth stretched in a grin. He gazed about their surroundings, seeming to zero in on the blue broom beside her head. “Well. This is a sweep.”

Claire’s giggles intensified until she was bent over in half, body shaking in hilarity. John joined her—and soon, his arms were back around her waist and hers were around his neck and they were kissing, kissing again until they managed to forget that they were in a frigging janitors’ closet. For a while. 

John suddenly pulled his face from hers when the doorknob rattled. “Shit,” he swore again, eyeing first the doorknob and then, weirdly, the ceiling. 

“Come on,” he said in a low voice as a man who sounded like Carl the janitor mumbled about needing to find the mother fucking key to the mother fucking closet. 

There was a pile of crap stacked high to the ceiling. Claire eyed the heap dubiously. A trunk, a couple of plastic chairs from the cafeteria, a bucket or two. It surely did not look safe…at all. However, John managed to clamber up the tower of haphazard school shit into a vent in the ceiling tiles. So, following a brief hesitation, rolling her eyes, she stepped out of her heeled oxfords and, furrowing her nose in distaste, began to ascend the Leaning Tower of Rubbish.

‘I can’t *believe* I’m doing this,’ Claire thought to herself as John grasped her arm to help her into the vent. The last time she climbed anything, she was twelve at camp, desperately praying that her sweaty hands would retain the rock wall handholds. She let out a snort, amused in spite of herself. And the fact that she was dangling ten feet off the floor. 

John pulled her inside the vent just as the door to the janitor’s closet creaked open. Unassuming, Carl hummed a Led Zeppelin tune whilst he reached for a new mop. 

In the vents, John followed behind Claire at a crawl, feeling the dust mites from God knew how many years coating her fingers and staining the knees of her lace hose. She swore she could feel the lasers of his eyes directly on her derriere. “John! Stop looking at my butt.”

“I have nowhere else to look!” his disembodied voice protested, and Claire had to concede that argument. When they reached a specific point, she heard him slow down exponentially. “Sweets, crawl *very* carefully over the next few feet. It’s kinda iffy here,” that same disembodied voice advised her.

Claire cringed, thinking of Saturday. And the “ruckus”. 

‘So *that’s* how he got back to the library.” And why she’d spotted a gigantic hole in the ceiling on the way to Geography. 

A hole that was curiously person-shaped. 

Over the next few feet of vent, Claire dragged her feet—her knees--*very* slowly. So slowly, John grew aggravated at her glacial pace. “You don’t need to go *that* slow, Queenie. That turtle from ‘The Tortoise and the Hare’ story we had to read in kindergarten just passed us.” 

Claire sneered at him over her shoulder. “I don’t wanna fall through!” ‘My head’s not as hard as yours.’ It was on the tip of her tongue to say, but she was trying to be less of a bitch even to someone like John Bender, the boy who she was really into and who drove her nuts in the same instance.

“Just tell yourself a joke. Worked for me.”

‘Yeah. Before you fell through the fucking ceiling.’ 

Claire breathed a laugh in spite of herself and mentally repeated that lame orange-banana joke from pre-school. When they reached, err, the “opening”, which did not harbor any evidence that it was being fixed, John jumped down first, then gestured for her to. Wincing and closing her eyes, Claire shimmied through the hole and, whispering a prayer, jumped. 

He caught her by the hips, and once more, she felt his fingers leave scorch marks on her skin, over the cotton material of her skirt. Gazing into her face for a second, he grabbed her hand, and, as once, they raced down the corridor. Not stopping until they reached the Art Wing and Mr. Kravitz’s Shop classroom. 

John knocked on the locked door, and Mr. Kravitz held it open wordlessly. “Ay, John. Do I even wanna know?”

“Probably not,” they said simultaneously as they ran inside. 

The Shop teacher sighed and produced for them two bottled waters from the mini-fridge he kept in his room. 

John and Claire regarded each other over a circular saw and burst out laughing.

**   
It happened toward the end of the day. 

As the eighth and final period for the day was half over, all five members of The Breakfast Club happened to be walking the B-Wing at the exact same time, all from different directions. Brian from out of the nearest bathroom. Allison and Andy faced each other in classrooms opposite. John was sneaking out of the cafeteria after searching for leftovers and coming up empty. And Claire was heading toward her locker. 

Each of them were either coming or going to the lavatory. 

In stricken surprise, all five members stopped short, gathered in a sort of star shape right in the middle of the hallway. Nervous, each of the five met each other’s eyes, then quickly, flickeringly, glanced away. 

Shockingly, it was Claire who broke the deafening, pregnant silence amongst them first. “Ahm…the library?”

The library’s doors remained open until six every night, unless it was a holiday. Cautiously considering the others, one by one, they all nodded their heads in hesitant agreement. 

Claire led the motley crew down the hall and across the A-Wing toward the library, her heels click-clacking all the while.

Only the echoes of their scuffled feet assured her that they followed.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Applebee's was founded in the early 80s so it works. I can't find evidence of one existing in the Chicago area tho
> 
> Note 2: Alan Pinkard is air-lifted out of Head of the Class
> 
> Note 3: Clark Gable really did have to replace all his teeth just before breaking into Hollywood, at the "advice" of his agent. Likewise, Hattie McDaniel couldn't even go through the front door at her own movie's premiere in Atlanta, but still managed to win the Oscar for her performance. The table for the movie there...she couldn't even sit with the rest of her castmates.
> 
> Note 4: Don't know why we had to learn Square Dancing in American public schools. Standing there while my little troll of a soccer coach did the allemande and screamed at us all to "PROMENADE, YOU SHITHEADS!" will go down as one of the weirdest moments of my life.
> 
> Note 5: Thorazine was really the first psychotropic medication, which debuted in the late fifties, replacing corrupt as hell asylums and, as mentioned, the lobotomy. These really were "perfected" by Dr. Walter Freeman in the fifties and sixties, and he performed many. Patients were brought to receive the lobotomy for any old reason. Concerned parents dragged their kids to see Freeman just because they were acting like kids--drawing on walls, talking back, breaking curfew, etc. The most famous recipient of the lobotomy was Rosemary Kennedy (yes, of THOSE Kennedys). Her father, Joseph Kennedy (who was a lowkey Nazi sympathizer and was in Berlin before the war as a diplomat), forced her to get one because he did not like that she "acted out". IE, went out sometimes and didn't want to just lay all her cards on finding a husband. The lobotomy totally ruined her; she remained immobile for the rest of her life. There were many possible side effects of a transorbital lobotomy, both physical and mental. Amazon's "LORE" TV show has an entire episode dedicated to Dr. Freeman and his insistence that lobotomies were the best treatment for the "mentally diseased" as he put it.
> 
> Note 6: "Come play with us, Claire." -The Luder twins, probably
> 
> Note 7: "Whatever, I'm getting cheese fries." Line from "Mean Girls"! And "Mean Girls" Day just passed. "It's October 3rd."
> 
> Note 8: "These mother fucking snakes on this mother fucking plane."


	10. Chapter 5: Romancing the Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry about the ridiculously long wait between chapters. I had a 103.4 degree fever. Not the COVID, thankfully, but I still had to get a test done to make sure. I don't drive so my ass had to get an Uber. With a 103 degree fever. lols. With my hair out to here cus I didn't brush it well and wearing holy sweats. When the driver looked at me in the rearview mirror he stepped on the gas. I must've looked like Zombie Sideshow Bob! Anyway, here's chapter five. Finally.

Chapter 5: Romancing the Stone

Brian had never felt more awkward or tentative in his life, and that was certainly saying something.

Back here in the library, in the exact same seats the five had occupied on Saturday, they now all wore matching expressions of wariness—even Bender, who had never struck Brian as the type of person to ever feel that way. 

It was strange and almost fantastic to be here, now. So many things had been said and done behind the door that remained screw-less, much to Vernon’s annoyance. Brian had been in this room *so* many times in the past. Usually seated in one of the single study carriages toward the back, shrouded in shadow, his books spread out on the desk in front of him. Staring at the endless type until his eyes grew moist with fatigue. Calculus, Chemistry, French, Latin—the list of subjects he’d perused here time and time again all whirled together in a blurry tornado in his mind. 

Yes, Andy had been on the mark when he stated on Saturday that he practically lived here. The school library was his second home and the one place he could escape to that didn’t ensue an argument with is parents. “Why do you need to go to the pizza parlor? You just ate pizza!” “The arcade? What a waste of time. You should be upstairs studying!” “Oh, the library? That’s fine, that’s good! Stay there as long as you like, Brian.” Henceforth, the library had come to mean more than just study time to him. It was a place he could go to flee, to unburden himself from the great expectations his parents harbored of him. 

But now, the library contained a different feel. It was not just his refuge anymore. He had forged friendships here, and not simply with his books. With actual people. 

Today was the dreaded Monday after, and he did not entirely know where he stood with most of them. 

By the flickering looks and blank faces of his compatriots, he thought—hoped—he wasn’t alone. 

A pin drop could be heard in the quiet of the cavernous room, but it was Bender once again who broke the tension. Placing his booted feet atop his desk, ankles crossed, he leaned back in his seat and drawled, “Well. Déjà vu all over again, eh?” 

The other four breathed simultaneous laughter. Brian exhaled a sigh of release.

“Except this time, we’re not all locked in a vacancy,” Andy pointed out, gesturing to the heavy closed door. “We can leave any time we want.”

Bender scoffed and threw a wadded-up piece of paper at him. “Pfft. Like we couldn’t do that before.”

“Yeah, right,” Allison piped up in the back. Brian was annoyed at how surprised he was. Hadn’t they ventured past those pre-conceived notions about the other’s personalities? “*You* got caught. Criminal.” 

John turned in his seat and sneered. “I did that on purpose to save you dorks!”

At this, Brian saw an opportunity to add his own two cents, surging past his initial reticence. In his mind, he envisioned the proverbial shell he’d always been stuck in cracking—not fully breaking, but definitely cracking. “A—and sh—shoved your dope down my underpants.” 

Everyone spun in their seats to regard him; Brian could feel the four sets of eyes boring into him, and he forced himself not to shrink under their synchronized gazes. Which had been his natural reaction to any and all attention from his peers, friend or foe, since middle school. Bracing himself for the expected insults, he breathed another sigh of relief when they all merely chuckled. Tension seeped out of the Brain’s shoulders and neck; a warmth of camaraderie, a feeling he rarely experienced, washed over him. 

“I gave you a free lesson on smuggling weed into the country, Brainiac.” 

“I s—suppose I sh—should, um, thank you,” Brian responded, shiny metal mouth stretching in a grin. 

Bender pillowed his head with his hands. “Damn right you should. First lesson’s free, but after that, I charge.”

Claire was looking at him in a way that Brian had caught her doing before lunch on Saturday, sort of intrigued, but now, there was an extra glint in her eye that made him feel like he was intruding on something. It was the same way Andy was gazing across the room at Allison, and Brian shifted in his seat. Coughed uncomfortably. Those matching expressions on his comrades' faces had him yearning, wishing that that girl from Canada wasn’t complete bullshit. It was the one aspect of their shared Saturday he couldn’t totally understand or take part in. 

In that essence, he was the odd man out. The proverbial fifth wheel. 

Would it always be like that with this group? He hoped not. Over the summer, Brian had taken a “romantic psychology” course at Northwestern for Advanced Placement credit. He knew that being relegated to the “odd one out”, so to speak, could and likely would foster resentment, and he certainly did not want to end up begrudging these people—peers who actually seemed to understand him, on a level his other friends simply did not. 

He told himself he had to find a girlfriend quick. And preferably not the theoretical one he’d met during a family vacation to Niagara Falls. 

“—door’s still ‘broken’, though.” 

Brian shook off his reverie and forced himself back to the present. Andy was staring at the closed library door and chuckling. 

“That’s because the world is an imperfect place,” Allison drawled. She unnecessarily blew a strand of hair that wasn’t in her face out of her face; Brian supposed it was a habit of hers.

“Of course,” John concurred, sticking an unlit cigarette between his lips. This time, he lit it with a simple plastic BIC lighter and not by striking a match on his boot. 

Claire was eyeing her from across the room. “Nice to see you kept the makeover. Though, I do detect a hint of black shit.” 

Allison shrugged. “Eh. I can’t fully get rid of the black shit. It’s my trademark.” 

“I thought being batshit crazy was your trademark, Basketcase,” John mumbled over his cigarette. Allison dug into her very large bag, plucked out a Ziploc baggie of Cap’n Crunch cereal, and hurled one sugar-coated nugget at his head. John popped it in his mouth. 

Claire giggled. Brian smiled. This was going well so far. Even if they were back in the library. 

“She looks great, black shit or no black shit,” Andy stated, smiling at her. Allison noticeably flushed. 

John rolled his eyes. “You gonna write her a sonnet, now, Sporto? Maybe serenade her under ‘er window? Oh, that’s right, never mind. You prefer rolling around on the floor with other guys.”

“Fuck you, Bender.” The words lacked the malice present last time the Sport told the Criminal to fuck himself. 

“Nah,” he returned, pausing to light another cigarette. “Not my thing. But you do you. Or the wrestlers from New Trier, whatever.” 

Allison was gasping in laughter, half bent over her desk, which seemed to lesson any animosity Andy would’ve felt. Instead, he smiled softly at her, and Brian once again felt as though he was interrupting a moment that he had no business in. 

Out of nowhere, the library was flooded in the tinny melody of what, to Brian, sounded like Madonna’s “Like A Virgin”, and he glanced around, left to right, looking for the source. Claire was staring down at the watch on her wrist. Was that a genuine gold Rolex? Good grief. “Ohhh,” the Princess whined, looking and sounding none too pleased. “I’m supposed to go meet Benny at Café Monica.” 

Brian’s heart plummeted in his chest. No, it was too soon! Who knew when—or if—they would all meet again? Were they, the five of them from all different social circles, relegated to forbidden meetings in the library for a stolen few minutes before the demands of their individual social lives reared their ugly heads? 

Not that Brian had much of a social life to begin with. Or Allison, who had none. 

Claire switched off the reedy music with a flick of a button. “Forget it. It’s just to talk about her bid for Prom Queen. She can decide on her *own* posters.” 

Brian expelled a breath of relief he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

From an area in the back shelves, one of the librarians, Mrs. Kunzler, emerged carrying a handful of thick, dusty tomes. Brian cringed. Mrs. Kunzler was the most cantankerous of the school’s three librarians; she always had a grudge to pull. Forever surly and sour, Brian—who’d very likely spent more time in here than any of the rest of the ragtag group---had never once glimpsed the old woman with anything but a frown on her face. 

“Shh!” she barked in a very un-librarian octave. One of her skinny fingers pointed to the “Shh, be quiet!” sign standing on the front desk. “There are students trying to *learn* in here!”

Brian gazed around himself. There didn’t appear to be anyone else in the library. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bender drawled. His feet were still propped up on the table before him. Completely relaxed. “We know the drill. Freaky old bat.”

The glare Mrs. Kunzler sent him was nearly tangible. The woman had lasers for eyes. And ears like an owl. She’d once heard Brian illicitly crunching on a cereal bar from ten feet away. All food and drink was prohibited in the library unless it was a Saturday. 

“S—somewhere else?” Brian voiced tentatively, trading uncertain glances with the other four.

Andy rose to his sneakered feet. “I think I know a place.”

**  
“Of course, you would know all the diners in Chicago, Sporto,” John remarked as he bit into his very large burger. 

Across the booth, Andy shook his head whilst scarfing down a slice of pizza. His sixth. “Nah, just Shermer.” A pause. “And about half in Northridge. Some in Winnetka.” 

“I can’t believe they have vegetarian options,” Allison wondered beside Andy, digging her fork into her Chinese chicken salad…minus the chicken. “No one has vegetarian options.”

Again, John bit viciously into his burger. “You’re missin’ out, Basketcase. We’re at the top of the food chain. We’re meant to eat the rest of it.”

Allison quirked an eyebrow. “When was the last time you had lion? Or bear?”

John’s jaw paused mid-chew. “I am going to make it a priority to eat me some bear.”

Rolling her eyes, Ally speared another piece of lettuce with her fork. 

“W—well, I ap—applaud Allison. It takes a lot of mental fortitude to, um, stick to your guns like that.” Brian, nursing his glass of milk and ever-present peanut butter and jelly. 

Ally smiled winningly, reached into her bag, and sprinkled her salad with Cap’n Crunch. The others wrinkled their noses in distaste. 

John snorted and resumed consuming his half-eaten burger. It was the size of his damn head, not that he seemed to mind. “You *would*, Brainiac. A bear would spit you out, anyway. Too lean. Not enough meat on them bones.”

Brian flushed. Claire, beside John, threw a cocktail napkin at him. It hit him just above the eye. “Don’t be an asshole.”

Predictably, he merely blinked. “You’ve met me, haven’t you?”

Claire couldn’t believe how, well, *easy* it all was—talking to them, being with them. The afternoon, to her, contained a sort of dreamlike quality, a sensation she had experienced during that Saturday detention. In the past, most, if not all, of her relationships with “friends” had been fraught with an undercurrent of tension. Pressure. Pressure to fit in at all costs. Pressure to keep up appearances (she was Claire Standish; there was no excuse for her to ever, say, not enter school dressed to the nines or not be perfectly made up. Even if she wasn’t feeling her best, dealing with a cold or a small fever, she was still expected to look and act a certain way; there was no margin for error in the A-Group, no allowances, and absolutely no excuses). Pressure to *conform*. 

Pressure that Benny Hanson, her so-called “best friend”, exhibited on her daily. 

It was interesting, Claire pondered now as she laughed at a remark of Allison’s and nibbled on a French fry—she was eating chicken fingers and fries, a meal she never would’ve *dared* in front of the girls. Within the A-Group, within her *own* group, she only ever genuinely enjoyed herself with the likes of Sloane Peterson and Megan Hicks. Vanessa Parker was too social climb-y for her taste, and God knew the Luder twins were all the way up Benny’s aerobicized ass. As for Benny herself…

Satan in heels. That was how the murmurings of the rest of the students described her. And she reveled in it. 

With the so-called “Breakfast Club”, she was coming to understand what friendship should *really* be like—easy, without that cumbersome pressure that was forever on her shoulders, flattening her to the earth. 

And then there was John beside her, munching on that hamburger that was as big as his head. Claire never in a million years would’ve thought she’d be attracted to a guy like him. A wasteoid. A burner. His hair was too long, and his clothes were too shaggy. Shit poured out of his mouth that her mother would ground her for a year for uttering. 

And that was one reason she liked him—he didn’t seem to give many fucks. Claire gave *all* the fucks. It was…different. 

He was the first and only to have ever told her the truth, as harsh as the reality was at the time. Was that really how the student body saw her? An ice cold bitch? A princess who had been firmly placed on her ivory pedestal simply because she was a Standish? Claire did not want to be that person; she did not want to be…Benny. 

When he kissed her, she wanted to die. She had never felt that before, that instant zing that traveled up her spine and caused the tiny hairs on the back of her neck to stand erect. 

Claire knew firsthand those hairs of hers weren’t the *only* thing erect. She blushed as she remembered their earlier…encounter in the closet. She had definitely felt *something* pressing against her stomach. Either he was excited to see her or he had a roll of pennies in his pocket. 

Even now, as they sat here in this cheap nylon booth, she could feel his hand on her naked thigh. Flirting with sliding upwards then returning to its original position just above her knee. And Claire did nothing to stop the ministrations. It felt…kind of liberating. 

Among *other* things. 

Abruptly, the sound of shrill ringing echoed from the depths of her Louis Vuitton purse. Matching the others, Claire gazed around in confusion for a second until she recollected the bulky mobile phone, the one her father had gotten for her for her sixteenth birthday. Claire rolled her eyes; it was likely Benny demanding to know where she was. She would never say so to her father, but the cell phone was kind of…annoying. With it, her “friends” could contact her at any time, day or night. In addition, the thing was heavy and awkward, and jutted out the side of her bag in a strange angle. The Motorola had cost Richard Standish a pretty penny; it had a 3500-dollar price tag. So Claire remained quiet. 

Andy was gazing every which way, trying to locate the source of the ringing. “Jesus, what *is* that? Where’s it coming from? Or was I hit too hard during practice and now my ears are ringing?” 

Claire reached into her bag, grasped the offending mobile phone, and pressed the off button. “Sorry. It was my mobile.”

The Sport’s eyes popped out of his head. “A mobile phone?! Holy shit.” 

Allison pilfered one of Claire’s fries. “Lenore—my mom—has one. They’re huge and annoying.” 

John snorted. “Sounds like half the administration. Huge and annoying.” 

They snapped back into companionable conversation, dancing around the subject that was on all of their minds. The proverbial elephant in the room. 

How was this—their easy, tentative friendship—expected to continue? It wasn’t as if they could just…show up at school one day, an unbreakable, determined unit. Right? It would shake the foundation of the entire social order at Shermer. What she had said on Saturday, as ruthless as it was, was the truth. There was no way their respective cliques would accept them. Benny and the Sports would laugh in their faces. Brian’s friends—whom absolutely did not look up to the A-Group; she knew that now—would assume the rest of them had something on him, and he was doing their homework in retribution. And John’s group…

Claire cringed. She didn’t know them from Adam, but in her mind’s eye she pictured this crowd of rowdy, spiked-everything burnouts who would glare at her scathingly between puffs of smoke. If there was one thing Claire loathed, it was being judged. Mocked. Ridiculed. 

Hated. 

Claire gazed down at John’s hand on her knee and worried her lower lip between her two front teeth. Did he hang out with someone like Tyson Carter? Because she’d once called him a burner nerd” to his face…at Benny’s command. The incident had occurred way back in sophomore year (eons ago in high school) but Claire wasn’t assuming that he’d forgotten. 

It was Andy, surprisingly, who put voice to the thought they were all considering. She would’ve assumed Brian. Or perhaps Allison. “So…what are we going to do? I mean, about…” His index finger drew a circle in midair, encompassing all of them, now currently seated around a cracked table eating actually decent food at a hole in the wall diner. 

One by one, they all shrugged. Claire wanted this to continue; being with the other four…it was the first time she’d truly felt…like she wasn’t living a lie? Like she didn’t have all of their expectations stacked upon her weary shoulders, like the rocks stacked on top of Giles Corey until he suffocated in that play she’d read in ninth. 

Brian, who she was coming to see as the string that tied them all together, was the one to answer the question. “Um, m—maybe we—we could meet here? Instead? After school on certain days?”

Glances were exchanged about the table. Claire wasn’t much behind the wheel—that was why her father drove her to school every morning—but she could convince the Standishes’ driver to pick her up from school on those “certain days” and drive her over here…and be discreet about it. John rode a janky motorcycle; she’d glimpsed it out the back window of one of her classes. She didn’t know if Brian drove, but if he’d suggested it, he must have a way to get here. Andy…

“I could always walk, I guess,” he finished her thought, shrugging. “It’s no big deal. This place is only a block from my house.”

Allison smiled at him. “My father usually picks me up on the way home from work. I can ask him to take me here; he won’t question it. It’s not like he gives a crap what I do.” This, she added beneath her breath. Claire winced. 

Brian showed off his *legitimate* identification. “I, um, just g---got my license. So I’m good.”

Brian was older than most of them. It was odd. Sometimes, Claire saw him as the “baby”—probably due to his social status here at Shermer. A total stereotype. There was something about the D-Group that caused one to view them in a younger light, almost an infantilizing light. 

John, predictably, snorted beside her. “My bike might protest against taking a detour to see you weirdos, but I can swing it. I guess.”

‘He had to add “I guess” so he didn’t sound too eager.’ Claire bit her lip to keep the smirk at bay. 

“I can get my driver to drop me off here.”

Another scoff, but the hand tightened on her leg. “Your driver. Of course you can.” 

That settled it. They were to meet here at three-thirty every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday—usually the day Claire went shopping with the girls. She’d have to come up with something. 

They remained there for another hour until Brian mumbled that his mother tended to go batshit if he wasn’t home before dark. John took this information and ran with it. “’Sowwy, Mommy! Bwy-Bwy did not mean to wowwy yous!” 

Brian flushed but laughed. Then used Claire’s ridiculous, clunky mobile phone to call his father. 

**  
So, that was what they did. They unwaveringly met at Peggy Sue’s every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday (unless one of them had a doctor’s appointment or something, like when Brian needed to get his braces tightened). They knew, unequivocally, that their respective groups of friends would not understand why a Brain, a Basketcase, an Athlete, a Princess, and a Criminal were friends. They would not accept that friendship. 

Thus, Claire made her excuses to the A-Group, Andy only saw Mark Davis at Wednesday practices, Brian muttered crap about his mom being an overprotective spaz to Larry Lester and Farmer Ted, and Bender…well, his fellow burnouts just figured that he had a new hookup. Allison went on business as usual. 

The first time Andy took Ally on a date, a *real* date, was that Saturday, which seemed pertinent. He was so nervous, he invited the other guys in the Club to his house for a pep talk. Not habitual for Andy Clark; he’d had many dates in the past. Beforehand, he was always smooth and confident…but this was a different story. This was *Allison*, the only girl he’d ever really been into on a deeper level. In the past, he’d asked out girls because, ahm, they were hot. And of course Allison was beautiful. But, there was more to her than that. He wanted this night to go well. *Needed* this night to go well. 

Whilst Andy changed for the third time, Bender scoffed. “You’re such a fucking girl, Sporto.” 

The burnout hadn’t exactly been crushing it in the whole pep talk area. Not that Andy had expected much. Yet, his boisterous honesty was proving to be a necessity tonight. 

Brian, clad in his usual sweatshirt and khakis—this one red—regarded Bender across Andy’s small room, where he’d been studying one of his “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” comics. “Th—That’s not nice, John.”

In return, Bender stared at him dully. “Since when the hell am I *nice*?” 

Andy pulled a blue sweater over his shoulders and quickly zipped his jeans. Then, he stepped in front of his full-length mirror to gaze upon his reflection. Was his hair too flat? Did he need more gel? Or less gel? “You’re *nice* to Claire. From what I’m hearing, *very* ‘nice’.”

Bender scowled. “…Shut up. And who the fuck are you ‘hearing’ this from?”

Andy shrugged and grasped his bottle of L’oreal Paris. A girls’ brand, for sure, but it was the best product for his hair. “Ally, mostly. Claire gossips. Your fault for picking a Princess to date.”

The Criminal narrowed his eyes. “I’m *not* ‘dating’ her. We’re just…” 

Andy’s light eyebrows rose. “Making out in indiscriminate and unplanned places around the school?”

A shrug. “Who says they’re unplanned?”

The Sport squirted his hair gel into one hand, rubbed both together, and carefully applied the stuff to his blond hair. “You’re disgusting.”

Another casual shrug. “And this is new? Dude, are you using *L’oreal*? That’s a chick’s brand!” Breaking up in laughter as Andy glowered, he continued, “You want me to fetch your tutu?” 

“Fuck you!”

The laughter increased. Andy rolled his eyes. 

As much as he hated to admit it, and as much as the burnout, someone he’d despised not too long ago at all, drove him nuts to distraction—and the Brainiac, to a lesser extent; was he getting his greasy fingers all over the spankin’ new covers of his comics?—he revered these interludes with them way more than he did many of the jocks these days. Other than Stubbie, they had all started to blend into one toxic waste dump to him. Especially Anthony Hewlitt, the guy whose ego was about as inflated as a Goodyear balloon. 

Bender certainly had a massive ego, but the entertainment factor negated any ill effects that resulted from that. Anthony Hewlitt, on the other hand, was simply *all* ego. 

Andy shook his head. ‘I can’t believe all it took was one Saturday detention’. From wasteoid annoyance and worthless nerd to…maybe actual friends? Besides Stubbie, had he ever *had* actual friends before? 

Andy glanced at the clock on his bedside table. He had twenty minutes before he needed to pick up Allison…at her house on the very exclusive Baron Drive. No doubt someone like Claire would feel right at home there, but Baron Drive was just one step below Sycamore in “You will never be able to afford any of this shit in a zillion years”. Not just the enormous homes, but the cars, the expensive ornamentation (like the genuine Luxor-approved fountain in Ally’s front yard, as she told him once with a roll of the eyes), the “Not on your life, buddy” boutiques filled with clothes that cost more than his house. Hell, one *rack* probably cost more than his house. 

He was anxious about even approaching a monolith such as a home on Baron Drive. Driving up in his old man’s ’82 Bronco. He’d be besmirching the place simply by ringing the bell.

The bell! Holy hell, what if someone other than Ally answered? What if it was her *mom*? What if it was her *dad*? Oh, God. Her mother had sounded as though she had a bug up her butt the size of an emu on the phone the other night. One that was pinching her, making her sound like a hoity-toity squeak toy. 

In his anxiety, Andy squeezed a bit too hard on the bottle of hair gel he was still holding, and a jet of the sticky, clear stuff squirted out from the top. Some of it hit Bender beside him.

“Hey!” he cried, wiping the remains off his face. “Keep your ‘emissions’ to yourself, Sporto.”

Andy flipped him off, but was still shaking inside. 

Brian traversed his bedroom and lay a hand upon his shaking shoulder. “A—Andy, um, the lady who leads my therapy group—which I absolutely do *not* want to b—be in—told us, um, that you should take three breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Sl—slowly. You know, if you’re, you’re nervous.”

Nodding, Andy did just that. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Three times. It managed to calm his racing heart some. He still *really* needed a bottle of water for his dry as the Sahara throat, though. 

Before leaving, Brian wished him good luck, Bender told him to “go get ‘er, tiger”, and he popped downstairs for a drink of water. And maybe a sip of whatever alcohol was in the fridge for a dose of liquid courage. His old man sat at the kitchen table and demanded, in a growly papa bear voice, where the hell he was goin’. Youngest Clark Travis was slouched down in the chair beside him playing some kiddie handheld game. 

Andy wiped his mouth after lowering the gallon of water from his mouth. “Gotta date.” 

Tim Clark nodded approvingly. “You seein’ that Stacy Luder girl again? I liked her. Had spunk.”

Andy cringed and shook his head. His father always asked after Stacy when he had a date with someone else, and they’d broken up over six months ago. “No, Dad. It’s this…new girl. I mean, new for me.” 

The old man bobbed his large head again. “Great. So, what is she?”

“Huh?” *What* is she? It wasn’t like Allison was a lizard person or something. 

“She a cheerleader? A gymnast? An athlete like you? What?” 

Andy grimaced again. Was that really all he’d gone around with in the past? Just…girls who could be defined by one activity, but only the *right* activity? God forbid—‘I mean Tim forbid’—he date someone from the Chess Club or was into drama. That wouldn’t be fitting for his rep at all. 

‘Fuck. I’m so damn shallow.’ 

It was a humbling realization. Andy had always considered himself the “decent one” of his friends—again, other than Stubbie, who was cool with everyone. The guy who never participated in the other Sports’ antics. Ribbing on an underclassman. Or wedgie-ing a nerd. But…how “decent” could he have been, really? No, he’d never participated, but he hadn’t ever put a stop to the rampant humiliation of the “other” of the moment, either. And furthermore, if he’d only ever gone out with “hot babes” who could prop up his reputation, wouldn’t that make him just as bad? If not worse? *Hiding* behind his so-called “decency”. All the time, still doing pretty shitty things like using girls like they were trophies. A glamorous, shiny object that would proclaim to one and all how awesome Andrew Clark was. 

Andy knocked back a few swallows of his old man’s half-drunken beer, hating himself. 

“She’s…an artist.” 

He also hated that he’d hesitated a second before revealing to his father who and “what” Allison really was. He took another swig of beer. 

Tim Clark failed to say anything for an instant, then seemed to accept that with a sideways bob of his head. Like *sometimes* artists could be good-looking. A nice stepping stone for his college-bound wrestler. ‘What a fucking jackass he is.’ “Well,” Tim began, turning back to his paper. He gave the want ads a single shake. “This gets serious, you bring her over, all right? I wanna meet this ‘artist’.”

‘Not on your fucking life.’ Andy knew, in hindsight, that it would be difficult, if not damn near impossible, to keep Allison from his father. But he’d try for as long as he could. 

“By the way,” Tim’s disembodied voice behind the newspaper said, making Andy jump. “Those new friends of yours or somethin’?”

Cautious, he nodded. “Yeah…” 

“That skinny one’s all right, if kinda dorky, not used to seein’ ya hanging around with that type. You messin’ around again?”

At that, Andy felt sick, once again right back in that locker room, surrounded by Anthony, Mark, and Keith, whaling on Larry Lester…and taping his buns together with his medical tape. “No, Dad. He’s a real friend.”

He smiled at that. Brian *was* a real friend, or was starting to become one. Not something he was used to, really. 

The newspaper shook for the second time. “All right, then. He must be doing ya a favor. Your homework or somethin’.”

“Sure, Dad.” ‘I can’t actually enjoy his company or anything. Nope. Not Andrew Clark, star wrestler.’ 

“As for your *other* friend,” Tim continued, and Andy had to smirk. By the tone of his old man’s voice, Bender had *not* left a good impression on him. Not that he would’ve expected anything else. Tim Clark's forehead was red, his eyes narrowed. Lowering the paper just far enough to reveal his glare, Andy was tickled at how pissed off those same eyes looked. “I won’t mince words, Andy. He’s a disrespectful little jackass.”

Andy bit back his responding grin, reached over to ruffle Travis’ red-brown hair, and walked to the front foyer. There, he plucked the car keys off the ring, shut the door behind him, and headed out into the crisp early spring air. It was cold, so cold that he could still see his breath fogging before him, and his hands were growing numb. Shivering in his sweater, Andy wished he had thought to bring a coat, briefly considered returning to the house to get one, but he was going to run late if he did, so he threw out that idea. Besides, it was far too likely Bender would taunt him about being an “easy date”. 

Spinning back around, he jogged toward the Bronco. 

Following the directions Ally had given him at Peggy Sue’s that afternoon, Andy went down the wrong lane twice before finally finding 18 Baron Drive. Naturally, it was the biggest frigging house on the block. With a circular driveway, cobblestone paths, a flowering garden, a wrought iron entrance gate, a wraparound porch, and that Old Faithful-esque fountain Ally mentioned. In the back, he could just make out what looked to be a heated in-ground pool the length of his house. 

Taking a deep breath, Andy remained behind the wheel of the Bronco for a moment. ‘In through your nose, out through your mouth.’ The Reynolds home, being here in Richieville, it was daunting, it really was. His inner monologue told him to stop being a pussy, a determined mien came over his face, and he pushed the car door open. 

Confidently traversing the incline to Ally’s house, which was perched on a slight hill, Andy experienced a bit more trepidation as he reached the wraparound porch, ascended the staircase, and, with another inhalation, rang the bell. 

Thank *God*, Ally herself answered, a bright, if sly, beam on her face.

Andy’s jaw itched to drop on the wooden floor of the porch. In lieu of that, he merely stretched his lips in a pleasantly surprised smile. She looked…beautiful. But *Allison* beautiful in a flowing red velvet dress with kinda puffy sleeves that fell to her knees, sneakers, and black tights--*real* tights, not the ones Bender insisted he wore. The front of her dark hair was held back with a simple gold pin, and her lips were coated in a fine layer of cranberry lipstick. Or was it gloss? Andy couldn’t keep up with the latest cosmetics and stuff. 

“Hi,” she muttered shyly, hands clasped before her.

“Hi,” he returned, the wonder evident in his voice. He cleared his throat. “I mean, hi. Sorry I was a bit late; I kept getting lost.”

Allison laughed, and he felt a pleasant warmth engulf him all over. Andy had to fight to keep the doofy grin off his face. Instead, he held out a crooked arm. “Shall we go?”

Nodding, she reached into an unseen closet, he assumed, for a black jacket and one of those tiny purse things girls used. “All set. Just had to get my jacket.”

“At least you remembered,” Andy grumbled as he led her to the Bronco. He shivered, and Ally laughed again. 

“I promise to lend you mine if you ask.”

“Appreciate that. I might even get an arm through a sleeve.” 

In the Bronco, Ally asked where they were headed, and he grinned. “It’s a surprise. Uh, might want to button that jacket, though.”

Bemused, she did as directed. Andy frowned. ‘Damn, I *really* wish I had taken a coat.’ 

Roosevelt Park was one of the few parks within the Shermer boundaries, named for the one time in 1942 Franklin Delano Roosevelt had stopped by here on a tour to promote morale and support of WWII. One single time, over forty years ago. But it apparently was enough to warrant a whole park named after the guy. ‘He *did* see us through a Great Depression and most of a World War. See? I know some things. Even if I haven’t taken a history class in two years.’

At the entrance gates, Ally indeed did pull her jacket closer to her. He tried to use the excuse of keeping her warm to wrap an arm around her shoulders, but he ultimately chickened out like a little shit, briefly let his arm hover, and cautiously trailed his hand up her spine instead. Ally made no comment, just smiled at him, and he let out a breath of relief when her head was turned. 

The Players at Roosevelt Park was mainly a community theatre group, the ones not entirely good enough to get the leads. Still, Andy’s mom had taken him and his brothers to see a show once a few years ago—“It’s my attempt at culturally educating you boys!”—and, to his shock, he actually had a good time. The Players were perfectly decent in their roles, and they enunciated enough so that they could be heard above the rabble that sometimes showed up at each showing just to heckle the actors (‘I’d bet any amount of money that Bender’s done this.’). The park was located a few blocks from his house in the Everything Else. 

He hadn’t figured Allison to be the usual dinner-and-a-movie type. And she was artsy. Plays were artsy, weren’t they? 

Allison jumped up and down in place and clapped her hands once she took in the portable stage. Andy eyed her warily. “I always wanted to see one of these shows!”

The wariness dropped, another exhalation of relief was released, and he led her to an empty spot on the grass, one near the refreshments table. Which was really just a cart on wheels run by some guy in a triangular hat. Looked like an ice cream man. 

The Players were putting on “Romeo and Juliet”. The cast had a blonde girl who looked near to their age and a dude playing opposite her who appeared to be in his late thirties. 

‘Awk-ward.’ 

Allison leaned into him. “Is he supposed to be Romeo or her father? Because he definitely looks old enough to play Mr. Capulet.” 

Andy smirked. Naturally, she’d be thinking exactly along the same lines as he was. “Romeo. I think. All these guys are in tights, it’s hard to know for sure.”

“You should be used to that!” But her eyes were sparkling.

The Players were up to the famous balcony scene. He could see the other half of the actress’ torso sticking out behind the “balcony”, which was mostly just a flat board painted blue and a matching add-on circle…thing. “Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name. And from thenceforth, I will no longer be a Capulet!”

“Should I hear more?” the way too old actor winked to the audience. “Or shall I speak at this?”

Beside him, Ally rolled her eyes and bumped his shoulder. “We all know he’s gonna hear a bit more then ‘speak at this’. We all read the play in ninth.”

“Yeah,” Andy scoffed, recollecting viciously leafing through his Cliff’s Notes trying to understand what the hell was happening in that Middle English of Shakespeare’s time. “And this is sort of an annotated version. I just hope they keep the fight with that Tybalt dude in.”

“They will,” Ally said confidently. “It’s an integral part of the story. Tybalt gets slain by Romeo, then the Prince, who is all like *up to here* with Houses Montague and Capulet and their bullshit, banishes Romeo. Juliet is sad that her new hubby’s been taken away—not that her cousin is kaput—and acquires that non-poison thing to make herself appear dead. Jeez, she could’ve just ran away and joined the guy wherever he was. Anyway, Romeo doesn’t get the news that she’s still alive, just everyone *thinks* she’s dead and she *looks* dead and there’s a funeral…whatever. So he decides to take for realsies poison and die beside her. But then she wakes up just as he’s drinking the stuff, watches him die, then stabs herself. The end.” 

Andy was a bit amazed, though he tried not to show it. Of course Allison would know the play they were watching like the back of her hand. She’d probably seen an iteration herself. His former dates would ask who Shakespeare is. And pronounce the name like Shake Speer. 

He almost felt stupid bringing her here, but judging by the look on her face, she was having a good time. So that was something. At intermission, Andy bought them hotdogs—with mustard, not ketchup, never ketchup—and cans of Coke. Ally actually ate hers as it was instead of sprinkling cereal on it, which he was thankful for; his stomach wouldn’t be able to handle that particular sight. Not again. 

After the show, he drove uptown to this place that sold art stuff. Allison was gleeful. “The Discount Andy War-house! I love this place!”

Andy glanced at her, bathed in the fluorescent lights of the store’s entrance. She looked exquisite even in this harsh lighting. “You’ve been here before?” ‘Damn, am I getting this date totally wrong or what?’

Ally nodded. “In fact, I intended to go…the night you called—“

He blushed. ‘Dumbass.’ “Sorry.”

A delicate hand rested on his arm. “No! I decided not to…because I couldn’t concentrate. I was thinking about you all weekend.” 

That made Andy’s slightly downtrodden heart soar. They smiled at each other, and he reached for her hand as the electric doors opened to allow them inside. She accepted without hesitation. 

Inside was chaotic, as most warehouses tended to be. Allison immediately darted for the left where they kept their painting supplies. He dutifully followed behind her with a cart, speechless as she filled it to the brim with brushes and stencils and…was that a whole damn easel? Sheesh. 

Ally shrugged at the look on his face. “Sorry. I’m almost out of stuff. My mom’s dog keeps gnawing on my paint brushes. And El accidently punched right through my old canvas.”

Andy chuckled. And wondered what had led to *that* instance. 

At checkout, she paid with her AmEx without a word, wouldn’t hear boo of Andy taking care of it, and happily skipped back to the Bronco whilst swinging her shopping bags. Andy, glad she was pleased, simply trailed after her with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. 

Afterward, not wanting the night to end, he drove them down to Shermer’s version of a bay—the highly polluted one that had at one point been the dumping ground of a rubber plant that no longer existed here, thanks to the efforts of local environmentalists. Still, the bay remained unsafe for humans to swim in. That didn’t stop some, like Stubbie, who’d cannonballed right into the polluted bay from a plateau, landed beside some dead fish, and had to remain abed for two weeks following the stunt. That had occurred nearly three years previous, but to this day, Stubbie liked to crow “I am immortal!” because the pollution hadn’t straight up killed him. 

He parked, and they walked along the trail overlooking the bay. The sun was setting over the horizon. A jogger pushed by, obliviously listening to her Walkman. Kids frolicked on the nearby playground, laughing and giggling and being kids. It all would’ve been idyllic—if not for the couple on the beach climbing on top of each other half naked…or his knowledge of the lovely-looking bay being a toxic waste dump. 

“It’s beautiful here,” Ally marveled, once again reading his mind. 

Andy bobbed his head. “Just don’t go swimming in the water. Unless you wanna wake up with an extra arm growing out of your nostril.”

Allison giggled, overtaking the sound of the children’s, and that warmth returned, climbing up his spine. He really liked her laugh. “I can’t believe I didn’t know about this place…” 

Andy breathed in the clear air—the only thing here that *was* clear—and allowed the gentle breeze to ruffle his hair. ‘Must be more than gentle if it can beat my hair gel.’ “I’ve been comin’ here since I was a kid. Me and Stubbie come here to, ah, hang out sometimes.”

He’d meant “scam on girls” but he certainly wasn’t going to tell his date that. 

Allison reached for his hand and twined her fingers with his. The bay, the breeze, the way she looked—more warmth. Finally, Andy allowed the dumb grin to cross his face. “Are you guys really close?”

Andy gently squeezed her fingers with his. “Since we were in diapers. Literally. Our moms met at some pregnancy yoga studio. When they were both six months along.” 

“So, that means you were friends in the womb!”

“Pretty much.” 

Allison looked straight ahead, seeming to watch a poodle scratching itself. “Tell me about him.”

Andy’s shoulders bobbed. How did one sum up a guy like Stubbie? It was like describing Ferris Bueller—impossible to understand, but he made a great friend regardless. “Um, his real name’s Steve Marshall. We call him Stubbie—“ 

“Because he chopped off his finger in Shop class?”

He laughed. Working with wood and metal was *not* Stubbie’s forte. The one Shop-adjacent class he’d taken in freshman year, Painting with Metal, he’d cut himself on the edge of his “canvas”. Three times. And nearly blew his head off trying to turn on the torch. “Close, but nah. His old man works with TicketMaster. He’s, like, the VP of Marketing or something. So Stubbie always has extra tickets lying around his house. He sells ‘em. Makes a decent buck, too. But Stubbie sounds better than Tickety.” He grinned. “Bender’s a frequent buyer. When he has heavy metal stuff. He damn puked when Stubbie tried to sell him Duran Duran tickets.” 

Allison cackled. He liked *that* sound, too. “Sounds like Bender. I can’t believe he inhaled two whole pizzas earlier.”

“I can,” Andy muttered, mentally picturing the dude folding an entire pie and chomping on it like it was a single slice. Not that he himself should talk. He’d ordered three helpings of meatloaf this afternoon. 

Peggy Sue’s. The one place in Shermer where they could be, well, *them*. And not have to worry about social this and that. Being there was like a breath of fresh air for Andy. For most of the others, too, he imagined. Claire, especially. 

There was a long silence, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. On the contrary, Andy felt like he did when he walked into Peggy Sue’s—like a weight had been lifted off his back. Being with Allison…it made him feel as light as air. Giddy, almost. He could be himself without having to worry about coming off a certain way or acting a certain way or…

Her hand tightened around his, she smiled that adorable semi-ironic beam of hers, and he swung their conjoined hands as they walked. She pointed out the swans swimming on top of the bay, he cracked some comment about how they’d turn back into geese tomorrow, she smacked his arm playfully, and they stopped in what was meant to be the boardwalk—‘Boardwalk to nothing!’—smoothie shop for a drink. He got a strawberry-banana that came out pink and she a Very Berry. She poked fun at his “girly-looking” smoothie and asked if he wanted a little umbrella. 

“Yours tastes way too banana-y,” Allison remarked, cringing, after taking a sip from his drink. “Especially for something so…pink. Claire would love to walk around with it, though.”

Andy sipped at hers. Damn, he should’ve gotten this one. 

They traded back, and Allison linked her hand in his arm. The same warmth returned. “I’ve had a good time tonight.”

Reassured, glad that he hadn’t totally blown it on the one date that actually mattered to him with the one woman he’d wanted to impress, Andy covered her hand with his other one and smiled. “So have I. Um…if you, like, wanna do it again…?”

Andy held his breath until Allison beamed. “Yeah! I mean, if you want…” 

“I definitely want.” He tried to convey just *how much* he “definitely wanted” in his face, in his eyes. 

Bashful Ally was back again as she looked at her feet, sheathed in a pair of slightly less beaten-up Chuck Taylors. His dates in the past would’ve worn sky-high heels that they could barely walk in with a dress. But the sneakers worked for Allison. They *were* Allison. “I’m free on Friday. Well, I’m pretty much free every day. ‘Cept Wednesdays, cus that’s when I see my shrink.” 

Andy lifted an eyebrow. “The one you’re *not* ‘nailing’?” 

He hoped he hadn’t just overstepped a boundary or something. ‘Stupid.’

But Ally only laughed. “Yeah, that one! I don’t want to nail him, anyway. He’s old and wears a lot of tweed. Looks itchy.” 

Andy chuckled. Started rubbing the back of his neck—then quickly lowered his arm when he realized what he was doing. ‘Dude is rubbing off on me already.’ “Yeah, I have wrestling practice on Wednesdays after school, anyway. Friday sounds good, though…” 

Allison’s beam widened. “Good. Friday it is. And this time, I’ll pick *you* up.” 

He chortled, and they continued walking.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: The Motorola DynaTAC 8000X was the first mobile phone released to the masses. It came out in 1983, was mad expensive, and barely worked. 
> 
> Note 2: Play referenced--The Crucible. There's a movie version, too. Winona Ryder plays the main...just the main lol. One of the girls who accuses everyone of witchcraft. It's pretty good.
> 
> Note 3: The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were comics before they were cartoons and movies (and lots and lots of toys). Written by Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird in their basement, they originally came out in '84. They were picked up by Mirage Studios and went into the stratosphere.
> 
> Note 4: Another Buffy reference lols. Cordelia referring to Principal Snyder: How about because you're a tiny, impotent Nazi with a bug up his butt the size of an emu?
> 
> Note 5: I did community theatre as a teenager. We did Grease once, and the Kenickie to my Rizzo was over ten years my senior. It was awks to say the least, especially during that makeout scene. Which the director dialed down because of my age...and his.
> 
> Note 6: That pregnancy yoga studio story is inspired by Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants


	11. Chapter 6: Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All righty, peeps. Y'all wanted to see John and Claire's first night out, and here it is! It took me a minute to figure out exactly what they'd do because they are definitely not conventional and John is not the dinner-and-a-movie type...unless either of those activities will get him super laid. Like, laid would not be enough, it'd have to be super laid for him to sit through that bull xD

Chapter 6: Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'  
**  
John really liked kissing Claire Standish. 

Which was saying something. He hadn’t exactly had a deficiency of kissing partners in the past. Heck, he’d landed his first kiss when he was nine and never really stopped. It was with one of his neighbors, some girl who had since moved. Kristi-something. In any event, his little boy self would go up and down the block just…kissing people. Girls. Kissing girls. Definitely girls. He’d been a little lothario, he had. 

As such, by the time kids his age began dating, he’d racked up quite a bit of kissing experience. He lost his V-card in the eighth grade, back when he still had those damn braces. Her name was Melissa, and she’d been a year his senior. 

So, John had kissed many women in the past. Yes, women. Twenty-somethings who had taken complete advantage of the age of consent in Illinois. As well as high school girls his own age. Never with a teacher, though; that was still on his to-do list. 

The list of girls he’d kissed—and way more—was a mile wide at this point. Previously, his numero uno had been Holly Grier because she did that crazy sucking thing with her teeth and could tie a cherry stem around her tongue. He’d done more with her than mere *kissing*, but as far as that specifically went, she was pretty tops.

Until Claire. 

It was strange, he considered as he gently backed her up against the tree they were making out behind (*very* gently; that first time in the closet, eh, he hadn’t exactly known his own strength, apparently; or ardor). Claire was decidedly *not* a Holly Grier type. She was not particularly experienced—odd considering that she’d had so many boyfriends in her own past. That thought had his closed eyes narrowing behind his lids and his forehead puckering; he kissed her harder. ‘Jesus, you are hypocritical jackass.’ She had seen the evidence of his own, uh, “experience” and she hadn’t gone all green-eyed with jealousy and possession. 

Not that he was jealous. No siree. John Bender did not get jealous. Possessive, maybe—he did not like others touching his “things”—but jealous? Pshaw. Someone’s been chugging cough medicine. 

Still. He didn’t exactly *like* that she’d worked her way through a good portion of the nuts n’ dolts of the A-Group. But saying so would make him a hypocrite. Or supporting a double-standard or whatever. 

As it was, she was nonetheless pretty hesitant. Or had been, at any rate. A few weeks into their…whatever they were doing, she was definitely more confident and assured in her, ehm, abilities. And she had ‘em. Those lips would send any man to his knees. They were soft and swollen, and he *really* liked them slathered in that cherry-flavored shiny shit—an amazing addition on her part. He also rather liked that her hair wasn’t big and tangled and full of hair spray like the girls in his neighborhood favored—the video vixen look. He…did not understand that trend, but fuck him if he comprehended *any* lady fad. Claire’s red hair was soft and mostly free of AquaNet; he could run his hands through it.

The whole “innocent virgin” thing was a crazy turn-on for him, despite the fact that he’d preferred an experienced chick before. She’d been tentative with her hands, hesitant, not sure where to put them—like she hadn’t done much making out in the past in spite of her long list of boyfriends. Almost like they were only for public consumption, whoda thunk it. Now, however, under his careful tutelage, she wrapped her arms around his neck freely and let them wander. Raked them through his hair. Placed them on either side of his face. Massaged the spot on the back of his neck that drove him bananas. He liked that. He liked that a lot.

Suddenly, she tore her lips from his, and he very much did not like *that*. “John, I’m freezing!” She shivered as though to emphasize the point. “Can’t we do this, you know, somewhere *inside*?” 

John shrugged in his many layers. He slipped off his long gray coat and placed it around her shoulders. If that would get them back to the kissing, he’d give her his pants. “Hey, I’m just tryin’ to dodge Vernon and Rooney. They’re making the rounds, you know.” 

Claire pulled the gray duster closer around her. He’d laid it over her miniscule pink cardigan. Pfft. Like that would protect her against the deep Chicago chill, which often didn’t abate until May. Thanks to the Lake District. 

“And besides,” he added, allowing a slow smirk to cross his face. He pulled her a few steps forward by the hips. “We haven’t, eh, ‘marked’ anywhere outside yet. Don’t you want to have…variety?”

Claire rolled her eyes but wrapped her arms around his neck anyway. “You make it sound like we’re dogs peeing on stuff.”

John scrunched up his face in a cringe. *That* was certainly a new mental image. “Thanks, Claire. I won’t be able to get that out of my head all day now.”

Queenie giggled; he’d happily imagine them as dogs pissing on shit if it got a laugh out of her. He really liked her laugh, too. 

What the hell was wrong with him? What the hell was *happening* to him? 

Claire-frigging-Standish, that was what. Jesus. The way she smiled, the way she smelled, the way she twirled her hair around her finger and pouted when she was confused—which had annoyed the crap out of him in the past when other chicks did just that—how she bit her lip when she was nervous. They all drove him to distraction. And those freckles on her shoulders…

He’d always had a thing for freckled shoulders. No idea where it came from, but…

Holy shit. He was definitely not cold any longer. 

Too bad she hadn’t let him to past first base thus far. Whenever he tried to, say, cop a feel or undo a button, she’d smack his hand away. But he’d get there. Eventually. 

What bothered him was that…he was not interested in any other girls at the moment. A few had tried to catch his eye, but for some reason, he just shrugged them off. Claire Standish occupied his every thought, his every *want*, and that was not something he was prepared for. Early on, he’d made a promise to himself that the one guy-one girl thing was *not* in the cards for him, having endured his parents’ version of “marriage” for sixteen and a half years. But his mind—and libido—didn’t seem to care. 

It—they—wanted Claire and only Claire. 

That was bad. BAD. This was entering commitment territory. And he stayed far away from that for a very good reason.

And then she said, her arms still wrapped around his neck, “You know, you still haven’t taken me out on a date” and his brain spazzed. A *date*?! Damn, he’d never actually been on a date. Not in the “traditional” sense, anyway. And he highly doubted she considered a quick romp in the alley between Woolworth’s and Subway a “date”. 

John gawked at her with widened eyes. “A date?”

Again, Claire rolled hers and unwound her arms from about his neck. “Yes, John, a *date*. Like, you pick me up at home… Never mind, that might not be the best idea. Um, you pick me up at the end of the street? And then, like, we go out. Somewhere. Maybe there’s food.”

A date. He couldn’t fucking afford a date. Not a real one. Not one she was used to, that was for damn sure. He could take her to a movie, or… 

Wait. 

He knew just the place.  
*

They called it his neighborhood’s Red Light District. 

He and Ty. Jokingly, of course. There was one strip club, but he assuredly wasn’t taking Claire there; Kitty Kat’s Room was not exactly “date” material…at least not for the likes of Claire Standish. A strip of stores and eateries and pool halls and a shitty arcade that couldn’t compare to the swank one in the erroneously named Shermer Hills Mall where the place got ahold of the newest games almost as soon as they came out, but at least this one had skeeball, the “Red Light District” was located a few blocks from his house, over on Brickmore Road. He’d used to come here as a kid a lot to escape…everything. 

His ‘hood’s rendition of an “entertainment sector”. Whatever. 

First, he and Claire got pizza from Mike’s, and to his surprise, she devoured four slices. He hated it when chicks pretended they didn’t eat and only ordered a salad or some shit. They sat there poking their fork into their bowl of rabbit food pretending like they weren’t fucking starving; he fully expected Queenie to go that route. Order some Caesar salad or something. But she wolfed down four slices of pepperoni and a side of cheesy bread (Wasn’t pizza by itself “cheesy bread”? Weird.) and chugged a pretty damn big glass of Hawaiian punch. John was impressed. And he wasn’t easily impressed. 

Afterwards, John led Claire to the arcade. Jax was there behind the counter, his second job. He looked ludicrous, this big Hulk of a dude, in the joint’s colorful uniform—a purple and red polo and blue pants. Like *blue* blue. Aqua, almost. Encircling is balding head was a green, purple, and pink visor. 

“Well! If it isn’t Bender and the Jets!” Jax snorted in laughter at his own lame joke. “One Jet, anyway. A pretty lady Jet.” 

Hands clasped against her blue jeans, a few paces behind him, Claire smiled, twisting side to side for some reason. 

John shook his head and dug his hands in his own jeans’ pocket for his wallet. “You look like a fucking acid trip, Jax.”

The huge man shrugged his beefy, broad shoulders. “It’s the uniform. Gotta wear it. But, hey, I gots my own nametag!” He fingered the small blue rectangle with “Jax” etched into it proudly. 

“Sweet deal,” Bender replied banally, flattening his expression. He plunked the money down on the counter. Beneath, shielded behind a pane of glass, were baskets of cheap ass toys—“rewards” for those who amassed mounds of tickets. 

Jax gazed sidelong at Claire, still lingering a few paces behind him, as he collected John’s money. He was paying for both of them in spite of the Princess’ objections. He wanted to show her—what? That he had *some* cash? That he could be a “gentleman” when he wanted? 

Jax whispered way too loudly in his ear. “She your new girl or somethin’?”

Going off Cherry’s blush, yep, she’d heard that. John glowered. “Mind your business, Jax-ass.”

Claire wasn’t “his girl”, not in the way Jax meant. Not in the way girls were usually “his girl”. Claire Standish didn’t belong in a cheap wallet amongst the others—and a few cutouts from magazines. She was not “his girl of the moment”. He…didn’t entirely know *what* she was. He *liked* her—and not just because she was hot and did really fantastic things with her teeth and tongue and luscious lips. He liked how she made him laugh out of nowhere. He liked how smart she was. He liked her quick comebacks to his bullshit. He *really* liked how she could totally pull off that shy virgin thing. Like she was implementing now. And kind of driving him crazy. 

He liked how she could eat four pieces of pizza without blinking and still look sexy as hell doing it. 

She wasn’t fluent in video game-ese—He had to teach her how to play Pac-Man and Donkey Kong; luckily, they weren’t exactly brain surgery—but she kicked his *ass* in air hockey and foosball. 

Blowing on her rubber yellow hockey “stick” like it was smoking, Claire grinned and winked at his flabbergasted visage across the table. “We have air hockey and foosball tables up at our lake house.” 

Then, she quickly winced, likely realizing that he did not nor would ever own a lake house. 

John crossed his arms and smirked, silently letting her know that he wasn’t offended. It took quite a bit to offend John Bender. Unless he was trapped in the cloud of rage, and he was determined to leave that asshole in the dust tonight. “Let me guess. You kicked your brother’s butt.”

Claire beamed again, her shoulders dropping, tension seeping out of her face. “Pretty much. He’s still bitter about It all these years later.” She adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder and bent to collect her tickets. “I’m pretty good at card games, too.” 

He’d have to test that. 

John beat her in that basketball game, and they tied in skeeball. Outside on the little mini-golf course, she proved rather sufficient. Surprising—he wouldn’t have imagined a girl like Claire Standish to be adept on the miniature links…or even the big links; under that hot sun, she’d surely get a sunburn out there. Yet, she was able to get her little green ball past the stupid grinning clown face using just two swings and managed to hit the thing up a steep ass hill for a hole-in-one. Somehow. *His* ball kept rolling backwards, and as he grew more and more agitated, Claire grew more and more entertained. Breaking up in laughter, she taunted him by calling him “Limp Link”. 

Eh, whatever. At least she was having a good time. That was what counted. 

When they turned in their putters, Jax took one look at his scorecard and burst out laughing. 

Next, she wanted to check out the pool hall next door to the arcade. John was wary, nervous, almost. Bringing her to the pool hall—there were a few “colorful” characters in there. Like Randy, the bartender—an ex-con who’d done twenty in the state pen. Or Tommy Chino, a former marine who could rip a dude’s head clean off his body. Bernadette Helstrom, who may or may not have murdered her husband. And Warren Lutz, who was just a mean sonofa. 

They tolerated him because he was a teenager from their neighborhood, and they recognized those scars on his face he showed up with sometimes. He…didn’t think they’d be cool with a richie invading their watering hole. Especially a Standish. 

But Claire was pushing inside before he could object, so all he could do was sigh and follow her. Inside the pool hall, dudes in leather vests and torn jeans were bent over the tables lining up shots, playing roulette in a corner, cards in another corner, and drinking themselves silly in the bar area. 

There was one open table, so John grabbed two pool cues and spent the next thirty minutes teaching Claire how to play (having an excuse to lean over her while she attempted to line up a shot was rather enjoyable). Beer in hand, she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand after the game and, perhaps a wee bit drunk, sauntered over to the men (and Bernadette) gathered around the card table.

John muttered a curse and quickly followed after her. 

Randy the bartender, who was absolutely not doing his job, glanced Claire up and down—from her cashmere pink sweater to her designer jeans and back up again to her expertly quaffed hair. He crossed his arms over his enormous chest. “What you want?”

Bender pulled on her arm to get her away from this pack of wolverines. But Claire only returned the gesture with a raised eyebrow and her patented rich girl scorn. “I want to play.”

Bartender Randy traded a glance with possible murderer Bernadette and guffawed. “We don’t play with richies, toots. Where the hell’d you get this one, Bender? She looks like you can break ‘er in half.” 

Anxious, John rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled awkwardly. He loathed that part of him was *embarrassed*--being here with a richie, the wolverines silently judging him, all used to seeing him with “some nameless broad”, as Randy called his, er, “dates”. He swallowed harshly. John wasn’t afraid of much, but these guys had the ability to do some serious damage. While he liked damage, he didn’t like damage done to himself. Or to Claire, in this case. 

He opened his mouth to reply—what he was going to say, he had no idea—when Cherry, overconfident as ever, spoke in an icy tone, eyes gone half-mast. “I assure you, *no one’s* breaking me in half. And I *can* play. So, move over, Sasquatch.”

And Big Randy, all 6’7 inches of him, rose to his full height, glaring down at them both menacingly. John gulped, exhibiting a rare sensation of susceptibility. But Claire remained as cool as a cucumber. “What’d you call me, girly?” the mastiff of a tender growled, and Bender about shit his pants. 

Randy could be damn intimidating. So could the rest of the wolverines, who had abandoned their game and joined their fearless leader in glowering at them both. 

“You heard me,” the foot shorter redheaded richie challenged. 

Amazing. She couldn’t stand up to her “friends”, but she seemed to have no problem doing so to a dude who could squash her with one hand…which, admittedly, was the size of a baseball mitt.

Randy and the rest of the wolverines continued to glare down at them for another few moments…before he gazed at his cronies over his very large shoulder, turned back to him and Claire, and burst out laughing. John was agog, flabbergasted, when the dude reached down and ruffled his hair. “Ya got a live one ‘ere, Johnny! Good lo-ord. All righty, girly, let’s play some Twenty-One. You know Blackjack, I take it?”

“Fine with me, and it’s Claire,” she said pointedly. “I’ll cut the deck.” 

He remained standing there like an idiot whilst Claire grabbed an empty seat at the circular wooden table. Blinking a few times, John staggered to the one at her side, aggravatingly fixing his now mussed hair. He liked it mussed, but not *that* mussed. 

Gawking as she nonchalantly took her pricy Louis Vuitton wallet out of her back jeans pocket, she slammed some dough—more than he earned for an entire summer dressed as a giant hamburger—on the table, pushed the wad into the betting pool, and passed out the cards like she was a dealer in a Vegas casino. 

Holy shit. 

“We ready?” she barked, gazing down at her five of diamonds. 

‘She’s never gonna win her hand with *that*.’ Not that it would particularly matter, not to a Standish. What she’d put in the pot, it was likely her weekly allowance. 

“Ready to show ya who’s boss, *richie*,” Bernadette the maybe husband killer rumbled, staring at her own ace of spades with glee. 

Everyone playing picked up their hands. Claire demanded an extra card with a brusque “Hit me”, then, when all the wolverines were satisfied, displayed her five of diamonds, king of spades, and six of hearts. 

Twenty-one exactly. ‘Hol-ly shit.’

Randy’s group of criminals--*real* criminals—groaned simultaneously and slammed their hands down. Bernadette went over, Tommy only had an eighteen, and Randy was just one card shy of twenty-one.

Skinny Warren Lutz, with his Pinocchio nose, cackled. He hadn’t played, but he had sure enjoyed watching this redheaded richie beat them all easily. “Y’all got squashed by a girl. And not just any girl but a fucking Standish. ‘Grats, guys.”

So, they *did* know who she was. Hard not to, he imagined. Her face was regularly splashed on the front page of the society pages. 

John was equally as amazed, though he tried not to show it. He was likely failing in that endeavor. 

“Best two out of three,” Tommy Chino barked. 

Claire shrugged and cut the deck again. They ended up playing three more hands, and she kicked their asses each time. 

Collecting her prize money, which included two tickets to see “The Sound of Music On Ice” at the Chicago Opera House (care of Tommy, who enjoyed his musical theatre), Claire smirked as all the hooch slid easily into her purse. John could not believe what he was seeing. “Want another go, boys? And girl.”

“No,” they all answered in unison, holding out their hands. Warren cackled some more, and Randy shook Claire’s outstretched hand. “We underestimated you, girly. I, uh, mean Ms. Claire. Dang, you almost took me for all my money.” 

Again, Claire shrugged and adjusted the strap of her purse. “My dad taught me how to play when I was a kid.”

Randy shook his pit bull-like head. “Your old man knows what he’s doin’, then.” That same head swiveled to John, bushy brows raised. “You hold on to this one, kid. Any gal who knows ‘er way around a card deck is a-ok by me.”

Bender could only stand there nodding like an idiot. 

When the tender walked away, presumably back to the bar to do his actual job, John grabbed Claire’s hand and dragged her to a more secluded area of the pool hall. Baffled, he stared at her, chuckling a bit. “Mark ‘card shark’ in the Things I Did Not Know About Claire Standish column.”

Stepping closer to him, she beamed and curled one finger in his belt loop. “Told you I was good.”

John blinked some more. Damn, he had never been more turned on in his life without being naked with a chick. “Anything else I should know about you?”

Turning abruptly, she began to skip—literally skip—out of the smoky pool hall. “You’ll find out, John Bender” she called over her shoulder, winking. 

Agog once more, he could only follow after her like a damn lost puppy.  
*

John drove Claire home in his mother’s rusted Toyota, the one he’d borrowed for the evening (without asking). Well, not *home* home, he dropped her off on the corner of her street because Claire was wary about him meeting her folks, especially her mom, at so early a point in their…their whatever. At her instructions, he pulled the car over to the curb and let her out beside the STOP sign on the corner of Sycamore and Main. Like a doofus, he trailed after her, and she paused at the STOP sign and wrapped her arms around his neck. When she kissed him, he tasted a combination of cherry shiny shit and beer, and he *really* liked that, too. 

“I had a lot of fun tonight,” she purred, and John’s pants felt too tight. He was glad, though, that he was able to show her a good time even if he couldn’t afford to take her to Café La Whatever. “Call me?”

Wordlessly, John could only nod. And watch her saunter up the street into her massive house. 

‘Oh, boy,” he thought as he staggered back to his ma’s piece of shit car. He was on *that* road, wasn’t he? 

He was gonna be a goner.  
*

Once inside the enormous Tudor, Claire’s mother, Nora, dressed to the nines as usual in a green knee-length dress even though she wasn’t going anywhere, demanded to know where she’d been, the clear liquid of her martini sloshing over the rim of her triangular glass with the movement. Claire, in response, only rolled her eyes and mumbled that she’d been on a date. She rarely informed her parents—her mother in particular—before she headed out. They were used to it. 

Tonight, Claire had arrived back home a little later than usual, and her mom was drunk as a skunk, so Nora attacked her as soon as she walked in.

From her very awesome date. With the guy she’d been kinda sorta hooking up with all around campus for a good few weeks. 

“Well, I hope you had fun, little miss, because I was worried sick!” Nora slurred. Claire barely listened as she began to ascend the spiral staircase to her room on the second floor. Her mother hadn’t been worried; she just wanted to argue. Nora was a mean drunk, which was saying something because she was mean sober, too. “I hope he was worth it!”

Claire allowed a smile to spread across her features, closing the door behind her and leaning against it. Yes, he’d definitely been worth it. 

Very much so.

Crossing to her wardrobe, Claire began to dress for bed and tried not to glance at her pink phone every two minutes. 

She failed.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: This is in John's POV for most of the chapter. He's not exactly a reliable narrator since he lies a lot...even to himself. So everything he thinks should be taken with a grain of salt lol.
> 
> Note 2:The age of consent in Illinois right now is 17, though it was lower in the 70s and 80s. I think fifteen?
> 
> Note 3: lol we used to play Blackjack and Poker in camp, my friends and I, when all the others were off doing camp shit. Archery and crafts and crap. We'd bet pretzels. This was all at ten and elven years old.


	12. Chapter 7: Labyrinth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh! UGH! I was gonna post this last night but my computer burped exactly when I was finished formatting. And formatting takes FOREVER. When you copy and paste the content, it all comes out in a blobby column, so I gotta fix it and I'm horrid with HTML. Then I gotta read it over to make sure there are no mistakes, tho one or two manage to slither past me anyway. It can literally take hours. So when my laptop farted, I threw up my hands and ragequit lol.
> 
> Title explanation: Bender meandering through his first richie event is like a winding through a labyrinth. No David Bowie in sight tho, sad to say. 
> 
> See if y'all can spot the Miss Congeniality and Titanic refs. Guess what I was watching when I wrote this?

Chapter 7: Labyrinth 

Brian really didn’t want to go on this date.

An undisputed introvert, he preferred staying at home in his room with his comics and his action figures and his “Star Wars” VHS. But Andy, riding high off his successful date with Allison, coerced Brian to ask out his Chemistry II lab partner, Esther. A girl about as tall as he was, she wore thick glasses and her peanut butter-colored hair in perpetual pigtails. 

Sometimes, he’d catch Esther gawking at him, her cheek in her hand, and thus, Brian had developed the sneaking suspicion that she was interested in him. For weeks, he told himself he was being an idiot because who would ever be attracted to *him*? But she was, and after mentioning this to Andy, he’d convinced him—forced him, really—to ask Esther out even though he didn’t return her, ahm, affections. 

“Consider this practice for when you *are* into a chick,” Andy had said that day in the men’s lavatory. “We all need to start somewhere.” 

So, after some good-natured needling, he worked up the courage to ask Esther out for some Chinese. If he was going to do this, he was going to get 

The date had started off surprisingly well. In fact, for most of the duration, Esther turned out to be chatty and fun; she had him laughing over his Kung Pow Chicken. But then, towards the end of the evening, she revealed that she was weirdly into taxidermy, and Brian did not know if he could tolerate that for long. Seemed like a strange hobby to him. 

At Peggy Sue’s that Saturday, Andy laid into him. “You’re just looking for excuses, Bry.” 

“Yeah,” Bender agreed over his massive piece of steak. It looked to be about as big as a cow’s butt. “I don’t often agree with the Sport over there, but sounds like you’re tryin’ to justify remaining single, Brainiac. So what if she likes to poke at dead animals in her spare time? …okay, using that terminology, it all sounds kind of grody.”

Claire giggled beside him, and Allison smirked. “’Grody’? Someone’s picking up Princess-ese.” 

“I am not!” he insisted, scowling. “I heard Axl Rose use it in a song once.” 

“Uh huh,” Ally replied, clearly not buying his crap. Brian smiled down at his omelet. “Guess that just happens when you’re *dating*.”

“We’re not dating!” both the burnout and the Princess exclaimed at once, causing them both to regard each other. “We’re just…” Bender fumbled for an appropriate lie. 

“…hanging out!” Claire finished, sipping her Coke through a straw. 

John clearly agreed. “That’s right. We’re hanging out. No need to put a definition on it. Or anything.” 

“Right.” Allison crinkled her nose, as she often did dealing with Bender. The dude could be confusing. At the least. “What do you think, Andy? Are they ‘hanging out’?”

“Pfft,” Andy scoffed behind his forkful of mashed potatoes. “Yeah, okay, and I’m Superman.”

Brian knew that the Gruesome Twosome, AKA John and Claire, had gone out three times so far. Once to a horror movie (Brian could not believe that Claire Standish dug horror movies; she had a whole collection, plus a giant poster depicting the graveyard scene in “Night of the Living Dead”), once to a Japanese place (Claire was determined to make John a fan, it seemed; he’d complained about the food at the restaurant all week), and once to what John called the “Red Light District of Shermer”, which Brian did *not* want to know about. They still refused to admit that they were dating, Bender moreso than Claire. 

While Ally and Andy had gone on a few dates, as well, and were even close to taking their pseudo-relationship public, fuck the other Sports, John and Claire absolutely were *not*. They liked sneaking around. Brian understood this only because Bender had started keeping a “tally” of when and where they made out. He did not understand how two people could possibly fit on top of one of those skinny metal bleachers lying down. Nor did he particularly want to picture thus. 

Yuck. 

Cue Brian himself. While he was happy that his friends were happy, he was beginning to feel like that proverbial fifth wheel. Especially when the two would-be couples cozied up in their usual booth (Brian loved that they had a “usual booth”) and Brian was left in the dust. Isolated. The lone holdout who hadn’t been bitten by the love bug or shot with Cupid’s arrow. Feeling awkward when they shared an inside joke known only betwixt the two of them. 

Not their fault. They included Brian in their Club shenanigans as much as possible, but there were just some things he couldn’t identify with. He had hoped, on some level, that Esther, his first official date, would have changed that despite his outward protestations to the date itself, but…no go. He could not get beyond the fact that she enjoyed stuffing dead animals with cotton after tearing out their innards for fun. 

Or could he? Perhaps Andy was right. Perhaps he *wanted* to find fault with Esther…and any other girl that came knocking on his door. 

Ugh. He didn’t know for sure. Maybe he was simply not ready to be a Boyfriend. Even though he’d very much wanted to be…at first.

“Might as well be,” John scoffed now in regards to Andy’s comment. “You both have a predilection for tights.” And Andy flipped him off.

“So,” Claire began, taking another sip of her Coke. “When are you guys going to take your little tête-à-tête public?” 

Allison and Andy blushed. Simultaneously. In the exact same place. Andy wrapped an arm around Allison’s shoulders and squeezed minutely. “Monday. We already talked about it.”

“Over the screaming of Andy’s parents. And the constant interruption of his brother barging in singing the K-I-S-S-I-N-G song.”

The others laughed, Bender most notably…and loudly. Andy winced. “Kyle. He’s ten and a little asshole in training.”

Bender took a massive bite of his steak. “Sounds like my kinda kid” he commented with his mouth full. 

Claire elbowed him. She’d taken cotillion classes in grade school. “You’re not supposed to talk with your mouth full. It’s indecent. Makes you look like a cow chewing cud.” 

He took another bite and gleefully showed her the half-masticated cow rolling around in his wide open trap. 

Claire cringed. But she was fighting a grin. “Ugh, that’s disgusting!”

In answer, he did it again, but showed Brian this time. He, too, shuddered in revulsion and amusement. 

“You—you know, John, my mom always said i—if you chew with your mouth open, you’ll choke.”

John appeared to swallow his half-cow. “Well, if Mommy said it…”

Brian flushed. John always knew how to properly get his goat. ‘Mental check: never mention my mom around Bender.’ 

Claire, at least, came to his defense. “Brian’s right. You can choke, and I don’t know CPR. It wasn’t exactly a skill we learned in cotillion.” 

“I know it,” Andy spoke up, shrugging under his blue t-shirt. “All the guys had to learn in health class. Eighth grade, I think.”

Allison was indignant. “Why didn’t *we* learn that in health?!”

Again, Andy bobbed his shoulders. “Maybe they thought it was a manly skill…thing? Shermer school system for you.”

“All you chicks were too busy learning how to put in a tampon!” John crowed, and Brian flushed some more. It wouldn’t be long before he had to run out and get Mary tampons. His mom would make him. 

Claire scoffed. “Please. I learned that when I was ten.”

“Same,” Allison concurred, pilfering one of Andy’s fries. 

John seemed to recoil from the mere allusion to menstrual cycles, the very same topic he’d started. “Girls are nasty. I don’t know why we were taught to believe you all were delicate flowers or whatever.”

Brian smirked as John stole one of his hashbrowns. None of them had gone public with their friendship, it was still a secret reserved mostly for empty libraries or classrooms and Peggy Sue’s. All of them kept making excuses to their “real” friends (and, according to Claire, the A-Group was becoming increasingly annoyed with her evasion), but Brian was not bothered at all that he couldn’t greet his friends in the hallways at school, that he had to ignore them entirely, because this here was their little secret, and he kind of liked that. 

Being with them all here, on their “turf”, gave him a sense of…what? Belonging? Relief that he did not need to justify their friendship to Larry and Farmer Ted? 

However, Brian was no dummy. He knew that that time would come. 

And soon.

**  
That Monday, Andy and Allison *did* go public, as planned.

As no one really knew that Ally was Allison Reynolds, that weird girl draped in all black who never brushed her hair, the Sports were happy for Andy. They whooped and gave him some good-natured ribbing and once again reaffirmed Allison’s “babe” status. Stubbie, the only Sport in the know, remained mum. 

Claire and John, on the other hand, stayed true to their totally not dating status and continued to meet in arbitrary locations around campus to hook up. It was *always* on campus—at least at the time—because that increased the chances that they could be caught, which they got off on. At one point, Claire even let him get to second base. Briefly. 

Brian swallowed his pride—and past his disgust—and asked Esther out again. Once more, she proved to be a decent date, though she didn’t mention anything about her “hobby” this time, much to Brian’s relief. Maybe there was a future for Brian and Esther after all…

Meanwhile, the group’s “friends” had no idea of the true reality. And who could guess, really, that so disparate people could actually understand each other and get along? Perhaps as adults, but sixteen-year-olds in a pretty clique-y atmosphere would definitely never guess. 

The nerds were getting frustrated that Brian kept missing their weekly Saturday evening Dungeons and Dragons sessions in Larry’s basement. The Sports were a little PO’d that Andy kept flaking on their…adventures. Like hanging out in the mall or waiting after school for a geek to round the corner so that they could pants him in public. The burnouts didn’t particularly care, or even notice, that Bender wasn’t around as much, with the noted exception of Ty (that is, when he wasn’t encumbered by loads of weed). Why *wasn’t* John around? Had he, indeed, found a new hook up? If so, he must’ve been, ahem, really “pleased” with this one because he’d been absent a whole helluva lot from the crew for months now. Was his old man getting on his case about…something or other? Dude got on his case about his mere existence. Or—and Ty had a hard time buying this one himself—was Bender…*seeing* someone? He could in no way imagine *that* scenario; he’d managed to convince himself that commitment led the way to eventual disaster. But still…

It was weird. His continued not being there. Bender was such a pillar of their crew. 

As for the A-Group…

The Luder twins, Vanessa Parker, and Amanda Jones were simply annoyed at Claire’s excuses; they were starting to feel like a bad date she was trying to dodge. “I’m washing my hair tonight, sorry!” “Oh, wish I could, but my parents are making me go to Springfield with them.” “I need to take the dog to the vet, drat it all!” Sloane Peterson and Megan Hicks were more understanding (and secretly suspected that Claire had a new boyfriend). But Benny Hanson…

She was starting to get *really* suspicious. And when Benny Hanson grew suspicious, she also grew angry. Vindictively so.

So, in the end, merely because she was pissed with Claire and the universe in general, she was the one who let the cat out of the bag about Andy and Ally. And about who Allison really was. 

It hadn’t been difficult to discover. Benny’s new competition for Andy’s adoration oddly used the same locker in B-Wing as the freak in the large coat before she quietly had it changed. As usual, Benny had been studying the so-called “new girl” pretty closely, as she did all of Andy’s love interests, including Stacy. In her observation, she discovered Andy’s new paramour eating gross Cap’n Crunch sandwiches for lunch, blowing her hair out of her face just like the freak girl did, and walking around with the same purse. 

Benny could not believe that she hadn’t noticed it before. The mysterious art girl “Ally” and weirdo Allison Reynolds were one in the same!

Thus, she waited a few days. Patience was a virtue in the art of social sabotage. Then, when the moment was right—in front of all of the Sports and, ugh, Allison Reynolds tucked under Andy’s arm, gathered around the wrestler’s locker—Benny struck. Like the poisonous rattlesnake she was. 

They were all crowded near Andy’s yellow locker. Allison freaking Reynolds was at Andy’s side, as she had been all day, excluding classes. Benny couldn’t *believe* the audacity of that girl!  
\ Pretending to be this artsy hottie to trick Andy Clark, one of *the* most popular guys in school. ‘Probably put a hex on him or something,’ Benny mentally sneered. It was the only way that Shermer’s star wrestler would *ever* look twice at Allison Reynolds. Without laughing, anyway. 

Benny watched as Andy laughed at something Leo Cortez of the football team said and pressed a kiss to Allison’s cheek—which only made Benny all the angrier. Indeed, she was engulfed in a red cloud of rage that not even her sharply filed acrylics could pierce through. 

Sashaying over to the grouping, blonde hair and plaid skirt flying out behind her, Benny stopped just a few paces from Andy and Allison, smirked, and crossed her arms over her chest. “I have news.”

Andy eyed her warily. Oh, he’d better be wary! Anthony Hewlitt looked her up and down and raised one dark brow. “It can’t be that you found some more material to add to that skirt, Hanson. Not that I’m complaining!” 

The Sports, sans Andy, who merely continued to regard her, broke up in guffaws and good-natured punches to the arm. Benny rolled her eyes. ‘Boys,’ she thought, annoyed. They were all the same.

Benny uncrossed her arms and placed her hands on her hips. “*No*, Anthony. It’s about…*that*.” And here, she gestured flippantly to Allison “Freak Girl” Reynolds, passing so easily for “normal” in her red cashmere sweater and black jeans. Ha! 

When the girl stared at her, all blood draining from her already pale face, Benny knew that she’d own. No one got anything past Benny Hanson! 

All the guys turned to look at Allison. “’That’, eh?” Stubbie Marshall laughed, which only further pissed Benny off. “Someone sounds a little jealous!”

Benny had visions of strangling Stubbie with her bare hands dancing in her head. Maybe slashing his throat with one of her nails… Yeah, that was the ticket! Benny denied the accusation right away, amongst the chant the boys had taken up of “jealous, jealous!”

Even though she was kinda jealous. Just a little. She was totally hot for Andy Clark, and he was the idiot who refused to acknowledge her ardor. What else did she have to do, parade naked in front of his house? Jump up and down in a bikini waving a sign that said “Take me, I’m yours!”? 

Whatever. Even if she *was* jealous, there was no reason to let the entire student body in on her secret. 

Benny pointed one long talon at Allison. “*She* is not who she says she is.” That wasn’t entirely true, Benny silently admitted. Allison Reynolds had never proclaimed to be anyone who wasn’t “Ally”. But that wasn’t the point. “*She* is tricking all of you. Andy in particular.”

That caused Andy’s adorable brow to furrow and his blue eyes to narrow dangerously at her. Benny did not really like that look. She’d prefer him to regard her another way. “Now, see here—“

Ham leaned back against the array of lockers. “Then, who is she?” Dark eyes traveled between Andy and *that* and her beautiful self.   
\

Benny’s smirk widened. Ignoring the freak girl’s pleading eyes, she gleefully plowed on ahead. She had definitely not forgotten that stunt with the supposed spiders in her hair. No siree. ‘That bitch!’ Because of Reynolds, Benny had had to be sent home early after breaking down in tears and mumbling about “my hair, my hair!” She’d cried all over the leather seats in her mom’s Lambo. She loathed crying in front of her mother. 

“She’s Allison Reynolds,” Benny divulged delightedly, waving toward the girl in question with one vague gesture. “AKA, that freaky girl who wears that huge black coat and never brushes her hair. Or talks.”

There. Now, she had spared Andy the social suicide of dating…that thing. Oh, he had to be *so* thankful. 

Benny ticked her gaze to his. He…did not look thankful. On the contrary, red infused his face, and his eyes narrowed. He appeared to be one second from going all bull in a china shop. 

Benny frowned. This wasn’t how it was meant to go. Andy was supposed to push Reynolds to the floor in disgust and, in gratefulness, bend Benny over backward in a passion-filled kiss, so appreciative that she’d spared him from going out with a certified L-O-S-E-R. 

Not this. Never this.

Stubbie, too, gazed at her as if he suddenly despised the ground she walked on. Which was insane. *No one* hated Benny Hanson!

Right? Right. 

The other Sports, however, were staring agog at the freak girl. She may have been all made up and wearing actual clothing, but underneath the lip gloss and tamed hair and cashmere sweater, she was still Allison Reynolds, and Allison Reynolds was a loser. She couldn’t hide the truth with a makeover. Nuh uh.   
\  
“Seriously?” Keith McDonald scrunched his nose up in disgust. 

Now, *that* was the response from Andy she’d been anticipating!

“I knew she looked familiar!” Leo Cortez crowed. “One of those painting classes is in the room beside the Jewelry Design one.” 

Mark Davis was chuckling. Benny couldn’t tell if he was truly humored or not. “She’s in one of my classes. I can’t believe I didn’t put two and two together.” 

Anthony Hewlitt patted Andy’s shoulder. “Sorry, bro. Looks like you owe Benny some snaps for saving you from this snatcher.” 

A “snatcher” was a peon from the lower groups who tried to steal one of the popular people for themselves, usually after undergoing some kind of physical transformation. The most audacious attempt in recent memory concerned some girl in the theatre group hoping to lure Lance Heyboer, a key player on the Shermer High Coyotes football team, into her conniving grasp. Luckily, she’d been caught out, and Lance was now seeing Debbie Singer, who was way more his league. 

Benny’s gay smirk transformed into a genuine beam. He *did* owe her snaps. In the form of a date, perhaps. Or more. 

But Andy was shaking his head, and the grin dropped right off Benny’s face. “No.”

What was that? She couldn’t have heard right. 

“What?” she all but croaked; Benny cleared her throat and threw her blonde hair over her shoulder. That was better. “I mean, *what*?”

It helped a little that most of the guys appeared just as baffled as she felt. 

All except Stubbie, that was. 

Benny watched in growing horror as Andy took the freak’s hand in his, that same dangerous frown marring his face. Allison remained a pace behind him, swallowing harshly but staying silent. “Her name is Allison Reynolds, yes. We met in detention. And…I like her. Anyone have a problem with that?” 

The star wrestler panorama’d the other Sports, giving his best haughty, star wrestler glare. 

Benny was flabbergasted. 

Anthony Hewlitt was the first one to see sense. He stepped forward, shaking his head. “Andy, man, you can’t be serious. She’s a…” 

Andy, a few inches shorter than Anthony, came toe to toe with his fellow jock. “She’s a *what*?”

“…a freak.” 

That did it. Andy raised a fist, as if to defend his (ugh) lady’s honor, but Stubbie stepped in—literally. Pushing himself right in the middle of the would-be altercation in the hallway. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! All right, all right, all right. Listen up, dudes. Andy can date whoever he wants. It’s a fucking free country, and Allison seems pretty awesome. So…don’t be turds, turds.” 

Anthony Hewlitt glowered but backed off. And when Anthony did so, so did the rest of the Sports. Raising their hands palm-out in surrender. Besides, not many people would contradict Stubbie Marshal. The guy was of one of the wealthiest families in Shermer. Furthermore, he was built like a towering redwood. 

Benny felt sick to her stomach. 

Andy nodded once, patted his friend on the bicep, glared at Benny, and turned and marched down the hall with the freak girl in tow. 

*His* freak girl. 

Benny was left standing there amid the confounded Sports with her mouth gaping open. 

**  
And so, it continued in that vein for our favorite fivesome until the end of junior year. Andy and Allison were proudly “out”, despite his (former?) friends’ continued bafflement—and Benny Hanson’s silent, furious ruminating. 

Brian saw Esther Brooks on and off, even once taking her to the local Museum of Taxidermy against his better judgment (and upchuck reflex). But he wasn’t really “into it”, and it didn’t take long for Esther’s eccentricities to morph into annoyances. At least in Brian’s POV. 

As for Bender and Claire…

The Gruesome Twosome remained a secret only known amongst their merry band of misfits. And Bender gleefully regaled them all with anecdotes—detailed anecdotes—of wherever he and Claire marked as territory. He even showed them his tally, which he kept in a spare notebook (all of his notebooks were “spares”; they certainly did not contain any notes or schoolwork or anything), much to the others’ disgust and Allison’s amusement. Of course, he’d hastily stuff it back in his knapsack before Claire could take notice. 

For the remaining final semester of junior year, they were determined to keep things cool and casual.

Or, anyway, John was, and Claire followed his lead. She was firm in her ambition to change his “no one-guy-one-girl ever” status, but she knew that she’d have to be patient there. Not one of her many attributes, patience. 

John, though, was content to keep their…whatever it was on the down low. He enjoyed the hell out of kissing her and he wanted to *keep* kissing her, but he did not know, exactly, what that meant for him. For them. Particularly since she was the only chick who he was interested in kissing at the moment. 

At many moments.

Still, he was dogged in keeping it, *this*, quiet. He sure as fuck wasn’t going to tell his friends or, like, carry her books to her locker for her. John Bender was no whipped puppy dog. 

Ahem. That stance was working…until it was completely turned on its head not long into summer.

Not damn long at all.

John knew, unequivocally, that what he felt for Claire versus how he felt regarding his Wallet Girls was…different. For one thing, he was excited to merely see her every day, and not *that* kind of excited either. Not just, anyway. He enjoyed her company. He liked that she didn’t take his shit and always had a snappy comeback ready. He *really* liked when she wore those soft sweaters made of stuff that he definitely couldn’t afford. He also really liked, now that the weather was warm and the stiff breeze reflecting off Lake Michigan had waned, she was more…open with her outfits. T-shirts that showed off her taut midriff. Tank tops that revealed her slender arms (and freckled shoulders…mmm). Especially those miniskirts of hers. He didn’t know who had invented those, but he’d totally worship at their altar. 

The rub of it was, Claire dressed moderately traditionalist compared to his Wallet Girls. They were all about the tight dresses that showed off their curves and barely covered their asses and sky-high heels he balked that anyone managed to walk in. Claire was more covered up. Conservative. Fucking classy. She wasn’t like, say, Benny Hanson, whose attire was assuredly not dress code friendly. Hell, neither was Claire’s; according to her, before the shopping incident, she’d racked up a few after-school detentions for wearing skirts shorter than fingertip length, but that was beside the point. Vernon and Rooney were just prudes. 

He dug that she didn’t find it necessary to show off everything she had all the time. And she had quite a lot in his estimation. His hands still tingled from wherever he’d touched her when she finally let him approach second base. 

Damn, this was completely unlike him at all. Second base with a chick was *nothing*, not to him. But, with Claire, her letting him do that, her *trusting* him enough to do that, when he knew she didn’t have much experience with guys, it was like he’d hit a Grand Slam. Right out of the arena. And smashed into a parked car’s window. 

He’d gone *way* further with other girls, but Claire… She was…

…yeah, different. 

He couldn’t quite get a grasp on exactly how he felt about her, though. He liked hanging out with her, and he didn’t even need to add her photo to his lineup to show it. He *really* liked kissing her…and the new other things they’d explored in the closet. And in a parked car. Some empty classrooms. Behind the bleachers on the football field. 

But John also liked just…watching a movie with her. She dug horror movies and had quite the collection. Playing cards with her. Damn, but she was a real shark. Sharing a pizza with her. She could inhale her fair share. Fucking golfing with her. 

That…wasn’t like him. At all. He wasn’t the Date Guy. He was the Wham Bam Thank You, Ma’am Guy. 

Yet, he *hadn’t* wham bam thank you, ma’amed Claire. Not even close, not in his opinion. But he still wanted to be near her. As much as possible. 

John was not used to that. No siree. And…he was broaching commitment territory, which went against his personal Prime Directive.

Oh, where was Captain Kirk when you needed him? The dude was aces with women. All types of women. Human women. Alien women. They all loved him. Uhura, too. 

His perplexity abruptly changed to certainty during the second weekend of June. 

That Friday, he and Claire were “hanging out” as usual—making out in the back seat of his ma’s rusted Toyota (which, again, he hadn’t asked for permission to use; oh, well). When the quiet night air surrounding what his classmates called “Look-out Point”—really, just a hill and a parking lot overlooking the town where kids came to “tread the bases”—only punctuated with the occasional chirping cricket and the sound of lips entangled with each other was broken by the metallic ring coming from Claire’s purse. 

Pulling her lips from his, drat it all, Claire dug through her bag and pulled out that whacked-looking mobile phone. She groaned. “Great.” And then clicked it on somehow. “Hello? Oh, hi, Kimberly. How are you? Oh, that’s great! Yeah, of course I’ll be there. A date? Um…” She met John’s eyes for the briefest instant, and he wasn’t sure what that meant. “…yeah, I’ll have one. Put me down for plus-one. Right, next weekend. I’ll see you then.” Click. 

Where was this? What had she meant that she was going with a “date”? John felt his hackles rise and his fingers curled into fists. 

But he wasn’t jealous. Nope. John Bender did not get jealous. 

Claire moaned again and closed her eyes. And not in a fun way. “Perfect. That was my cousin, Kimberly. She’s getting married and wants me to go to the engagement party. To show off, most like.”  
John barely stopped himself from smirking. She would not like that. “Ah. So, she’s one of those, eh?”

The Princess nodded sagely, rolling her eyes. “She’s my only cousin near my age and has been attempting to one-up me all my life. If I got a new doll, she had to get a prettier one. If I got a car for my sixteenth birthday, she had to get one imported. If I got a new boyfriend, so did she. I swear, she’s a slightly older Michelle Manning.”

Bender held back another smirk. According to Claire, she did not get along with Michelle Manning at all. The girl was constantly one-upping her. Claire had lost out Junior Prom Queen to Michelle, and she still hadn’t stopped gloating. That was over a month ago. 

Claire craned her neck to regard him, batting those pretty eyelashes of hers. “I have to bring a date or she’ll never let me live it down. Do you…want to be that date?”

John panicked. It was one thing to bring her to the movies or his neighborhood’s “Red Light District” but an engagement party?! With her cousin?! That reeked of commitment to him. That was a “boyfriend” thing, not a casual whatever thing. Right?

Before he could stammer out a reply, Claire forged on ahead. “I mean, I can always ask Stef McKee, but…”

John scowled. Stef McKee was one of Claire’s mom’s minion’s sons. One of the most popular dudes in Shermer, and also one of the richest. And a huge, *huge* douchebag. He’d had his eye on Claire for months, and, also according to her, repeatedly had to dodge his, ahem, invitations. Some were innocuous, like dinner and dancing. Others were…more up John’s alley, so to speak. And John did not like that. He *really* did not like that. 

In fact, right now, it was taking all his cool not to hunt McKee down and punch him in the nose. Dude was probably at the country club, where all the richies hung out. He’d just have to disguise himself as a pool boy or something…

John shook the cobwebs off. No way in hell was Claire going to take McKee. Over his dead body. “Don’t you fucking dare!”

One red eyebrow lifted. “So…does that mean you’ll go with me?”

Was that what that meant? “…yes.” 

Claire kissed him on the cheek. “Great! Pick me up at noon. My driver will take us.”

And that was how Claire Standish had manipulated John Bender into going to a fucking engagement party for some chick he didn’t know.

Nest Sunday morning, he woke much earlier than he usually did, way before his alarm clock could do so for him, because he was so anxious and spent an inordinate amount of time sifting through his limited wardrobe for something appropriate to wear. Claire had told him that the party was “semi-casual”, whatever the fuck that meant, but he didn’t think his usual jeans and flannel would be fitting. Thus, he dug a pair of “dress pants” he never wore out of his closet, ones he had bought for Ty’s sister’s wedding, and a black button-up, which he also donned for said wedding. He looked like a fucking waiter, but it was better than nothing. He supposed. 

His ma, in one of her lucid moments, barged into his room, looking angry and ranting about him leaving his jacket on the steps (lo she herself regularly plopped her cheap JC Penny purse on there) but stopped short when she took him in in all his dolled up glory. “My, my! Don’t you look handsome! Where are you goin’?”

John shrugged, his ensuing blush causing him to duck his head. His ma so rarely complimented him these days. “…engagement party…” 

Laura Bender furrowed her brow. “What?”

She hadn’t heard him. He sighed and said a bit louder, “Engagement party! Uh, taking a girl to one…” 

His ma beamed; he thought it brightened her whole face and made her look not so tragic anymore. “Well! Isn’t that nice? Must be a heck of a girl. I know you avoid things like that like the plague, Johnny.”

Bender gazed at his pointed dress shoes, also bought for Joy’s wedding. They were over a year old and were now scuffed and a bit dirty, and they barely fit him anymore. “Yeah, well…” John rubbed the back of his neck nervously. 

He heard Laura Bender’s bare feet echoing against the shaggy, thin gray carpeting of his bedroom as she ventured closer. He watched dubiously whilst she rifled through his dresser, asymmetrical now that one of the legs was broken, and pulled out a blue necktie with a victorious “A-ha!” The same one he’d worn to his grandpop’s funeral a few years previous. “That outfit ain’t complete without a tie.”

John grimaced. “Ma, you know I hate ties! And I don’t even know how to tie one!”

“Oh!” his mother exclaimed, purposely striding toward him and wrapping the leash around his neck. She proceeded to tie the thing into a knot like it was second-nature. “You’re almost seventeen! Gotta learn how to do these things eventually, Johnny!”

John huffed but didn’t respond to that. Laura laughed. “I swear, you can be just as stubborn as your daddy…” 

That did it. With the comparison to his father, even a small one, John stepped away from his ma and gathered up his denim jacket, which he rarely left the house without despite it being hot as hell outside. “Gotta go, Ma. I’ll be back tonight. Later.”

He heard Laura call out his name before he quickly walked out of the room and down the rickety staircase. The creaking noises apparently alerted his old man, who was plopped on the couch with a beer in hand and staring at the TV as usual. 

Half turning around in his seat, Jake Bender starred John up and down and quirked both bushy eyebrows. “You don’t look yerself, kid. Where ya headed?”

John mumbled that he had a date. His father guffawed and knocked back his beer. “Ya must like this one! Yer all dressed up! Even wearin’ a dang tie. Fine then, James Bond, just be back by nightfall.”

Not that his old man gave a shit, John knew this, he just liked throwing his weight around. Nodding, he swiftly walked outside, down the porch steps, and to his piece of crap Harley. 

Obediently, he picked her up at her house at noon. Her parents weren’t there, thank the lord—he couldn’t imagine that the likes of Richard Standish, reputed billionaire and businessman and one of the richest men in Chicago, would approve of his only daughter seeing some working class schmo, and as for her mother, Nora Standish had her own reputation in Shermer, and it was less “Leave it to Beaver” and more “Mommie Dearest”—gone to spend the week in their lake house, but the housekeeper was, and she did not look pleased when she answered the door. 

“Who are you?” the dour-faced woman barked without preamble in a distinctly German accent. She wore her graying copper hair in the tightest bun he’d ever seen, and a gray uniform. 

John rubbed at his neck again. “Uh. I’m here to pick up Claire…”

The pissed off seeming housekeeper pursed her lips but nodded once, ushered him inside the immaculate Standish abode with its marbled foyer, sumptuous leather furniture, and expensive as fuck looking tchotchkes. At the staircase, the housekeeper said stiffly, “She will be down in a moment.” Then turned from him and walked away without another word. 

John felt fucking weird in the middle of all this luxury—like he had no business here in this GD castle and he was dirtying up the place just by standing in it. So, he kept his eyes on the spiral staircase, which was also comprised of marble and contained flecks of solid gold. The railing, too, was made of 24K gold. Sheesh. 

Then, one of the doors on the second floor opened, Claire stepped out, and began descending the staircase decked out in this ice blue off-the-shoulder dress that hemmed just above her knees, a pair of matching sandals that had a heel but wasn’t insanely high, her red hair swept off her face. He thought he could spy some of that shiny pink shit on her lips. Her cheeks looked rosier. Her eyes wider. 

John’s jaw came unhinged without his consent. Hot damn, she looked…stunning. 

Not just hot. Or even beautiful. But stunning. 

That was The Moment, watching her descend those stairs wearing that dress and a shy smile—The Moment John Bender knew he was a fucking goner. No going back, over the moon fucking goner. \

Claire furrowed her brow. Probably due to the doofy expression he knew he was wearing. “Is something wrong?”

Bender physically snapped himself out of it and took pains to replace his awe with the usual sarcastic smirk he tended to ear. Cool. Confident. Not how he felt in this moment at all. “You might stand up the bride-to-be, Princess.” 

There. He’d complimented her without being Brainiac about it. 

Right?

Claire beamed. Truly beamed. Her smile damn near pinged like in a cartoon. John almost had to punch himself before that same doofy visage returned. “You don’t think it’s too….” And here, she threw up her arms, encompassing her whole lovely self. 

John shook his head. “It’s not ‘too’ anything. You look very engagement party chic, Cherry.” Had his voice cracked on “Cherry”? Ugh. He’d thought he had left that business behind in Puberty Land. 

Claire adjusted the white strap of her purse on her shoulder. It was one of those little ones with a cutout on the front in the shape of a heart. “You ready to go?” 

Stupidly, John bobbed his head once and offered her his arm like a moron. Smiling, she took it, and to make this situation a little less pathetic, he tipped his head back and pointed his nose up in the air like a stereotypical Rich Guy. Claire giggled. 

He really liked her laugh, too. 

Her driver, though—he didn’t like him. He was a snooty, snobby Winston Churchill lookalike who blatantly eyed him up and down as he opened the door to the Standish Towne Car and th  
en made a noise of disapproval. Bender glared at him whilst he climbed inside beside Claire. 

Cherry introduced him as Brambles. Just Brambles. 

“Where are we going, exactly?” he asked as he dubiously looked out the window. All the fricking passing trees eventually cleared to reveal huge ass house after huge ass house. Ones that his own could easily fit inside. Hell, some of them looked even bigger than Cherry’s.

Claire was checking her makeup in that little mirror thing. Not that she needed it—she looked fucking perfect. “Kimberly’s having it at her house. My Aunt Theresa arranged it all.”

Claire’s aunt, she told him, was in the midst of this big family drama. She was getting—gasp--*divorced* from her philandering husband…when she herself was cheating with some other dude. Casino magnate in Vegas. Hey, if you’re gonna be a cheating asshole, may as well be with a casino magnate. After all, whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. 

“Except not,” Claire replied when he drawled just this, rolling her eyes and clicking closed the mirror thngie. “My grandmother found out, then she told my mom, who told my dad—it’s a whole big thing. My mom and Aunt Theresa fight like cats and dogs whenever she visits, and now Mom has an excuse.” 

John shook his head, amazed at what the ultra-elite considered “scandalous”. “It’s a divorce, not a murder! Rich people are weird.”

Claire threw back her head against the seat and laughed.

They drove into—Lord help him—Lake Forest, the most expensive and richie-rich suburb of Chicago. Like, one had to make at least 400 grand a year to live here. John leaned back into his seat, uncomfortably twitching and pulling down his shirtsleeves. He shed his jacket. He didn’t think the people of Lake Forest appreciated a good denim jacket. 

As though reading his body language, Claire reached over and squeezed his hand. That was a little better but…

Fucking Lake Forest. 

Aaaand they pulled up to one of the biggest houses in the nearest development. It was all glass and angles and looked more like a spaceship than a house, in Bender’s opinion. 

The car pulled into a wide, circular driveway because all richies had wide, circular driveways. Winston Brambles-hill opened his door for him wearing that same disapproval, and Bender discreetly flipped him off so that only he could see the gesture. The dude scowled, and John cackled. 

Claire merely looked at him sidelong like he was doing something wrong but she wasn’t sure what, shook her head, reached into the car for some oversized box professionally wrapped in colorful paper, and walked on ahead. When they reached the fence separating the yard from the rest of the property, she inhaled deeply, pasted on a smile she obviously didn’t feel, and grasped his arm. 

Why the hell did richies do shit they patently didn’t want to? Seemed like a waste of time. 

“Okay. Ready?” she asked, her fingers tight on his forearm. He kind of liked the feeling of her warmth on his shirt, seeping into his skin. 

“As I’ll ever be, I guess,” he mumbled, staring at the toes of his scuffed shoes. Damn, he should’ve gotten these things polished before today. Not that he knew exactly where to go to *get* them polished. Were there still boys in news caps who’d polish a shoe for a nickel? 

Claire inhaled deeply once more before pushing the wooden gate open. Immediately, a chubby little dog tried to hump his leg. 

The Princess bent down and picked the thing up before he could kick it off. It happily began licking her face, and Claire giggled as she caressed its red and white fur. “Oh, Chuckie! Be a good boy and don’t hump everything, okay?”

John snorted beside her. “Get ‘im a nice fire hydrant.” Or one of those blowup dolls. 

Claire guffawed and put “Chuckie” down. He ran over to a pink draped table to beg for scraps.

Out of nowhere, breaking the tinkling echo of soft classical music playing from hidden speakers, a screech broke the otherwise quiet. Claire’s smile looked pained, and John could only gawk as a tall brunette in a white dress—everyone seemed to be wearing pastels except him—jogged over to Cherry and enveloped her in her skinny arms. She was pretty, Bender couldn’t help but notice, with long, thick black hair that fell to the middle of her back, beige skin, and big brown eyes. She didn’t look anything like Claire, that was for certain.

“Cousin Claire! I’m *so* glad you came!” The brunette—who must’ve been this shindig’s guest of honor—wrapped her hand around Claire’s in a tight grip and bobbed them up and down. Girls. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it! The party’s already started, you know.”

“I can see that,” Claire drawled, gazing around the packed, and *huge*, yard. Everywhere, people in Easter egg colors meandered around carrying plates of food or cake. Tables dressed in pink covers dotted the space. Kids climbed on a plastic jungle gym like little monkeys. Some splashed in a small in-ground pool, and in this heat, John wished that he’d brought a bathing suit. Colorful streamers and confetti littered the ground; these people obviously weren’t environmentalists. “We were stuck in traffic.” 

Claire gestured to him, introducing him to her cousin, and he felt stupid. He stuck out like a sore thumb amongst these Stepford Wives. But, if Kimberly took notice, which she assuredly had, she didn’t say so, only shaking his hand wearing that same wide toothpaste commercial smile. “It’s nice to meet you! Any friend of my cousin’s…oh! You both should meet my fiancé! I can’t get used to that word, fiancé!”

Kimberly led them over to a dressed folding table, where a dude in a too tight polo tucked into too loose khakis was stuffing his face with yellow cake. Off his expression, he did *not* want to be here. Otherwise, he looked about as interesting as drying paint. 

Kimberly rushed to his side and cuddled close, pressing her lips to his cheek. His visage remained unmoved. Like boring granite. “This is Grant! Grant, this is my cousin, Claire. And her date, John.”

“Grant’ didn’t move, other than to continue eating that cake. “’Sup?”

John’s eyebrows rose. “Airplanes.”

Grant’s large ass brow furrowed. A movie could be projected on that thing. “Huh?”

‘Dealing with the intelligentsia here.’ “Exactly.” 

Cousin Kimberly didn’t seem to catch on to John’s disdain. She beamed and squeezed Grant’s arm tighter. “Isn’t he great?!”

Claire’s smile now was less pained and more amused. That was a plus in the ol’ Win Column. “The greatest.” 

“So, walk around! Mingle! Have some cake if you want, there’s plenty left! Mom will be *so* excited to see you, Claire! Especially with a *date*. You always come to these things alone!”

Gone went the amused façade. In the blink of an eye. Claire folded one arm over her chest and pinched John’s black shirt with the other one, gradually pulling him away. “I’ll make sure to see Aunt Theresa. Nice to meet you, Grant. Thanks for inviting me, Kimberly.”

The brunette’s smile broadened to the point where Bender thought her face would crack. “Thanks for coming! Both of you!”

Claire grasped John’s arm around the bicep, cringing as she left her cousin and her fiancé in the dust. “Ugh.”

John snickered; he couldn’t rightly help himself. “She always like that?”

“Worse.”

At the main table or whatever, a half-eaten cake carefully crafted to resemble two turtledoves (one had been mostly consumed except for the head) in fondant reigned supreme between two ice sculptures carved into swans. That was a lot of fowl. John shrugged; cake was cake. He cut himself a slice and plopped it atop a red plastic plate instead of one of the glass ones in the tower beside it because he just knew that he’d break it. The inside was all yellow with a reddish-brown filling. One bite revealed that filling to be chocolate raspberry. Not bad. 

John found himself mingling with people he never would’ve conversed with in a thousand years until this day. The most surreal moment came when three old guys dressed in, in John’s estimation, what looked to be really expensive suits. They were chattering about the current political climate and the apparent stalemate between the US and Russia. Only Claire at John’s side prevented him from running away screaming. 

“I say we bomb them!” crowed Old Man 1, spearing a grape with his sterling silver fork. “In my opinion, Reagan’s not being assertive *enough* with Gorbachev! Bomb the fuckers. Excuse my language, miss.” He added this last for Claire’s sake, who merely smiled in that pained-constipated way once more. 

Old Man 2 shook his bald, liver-spotted head. “That will only lead to ruin. On *both* our parts. Dead Soviets—“

“Nothing wrong with that!” Old Man 1 interrupted, smacking his fist into his palm. Bender had to *really* fight the urge to roll his eyes. Hard. 

“—dead Americans,” Old Man 2 went on as if Old Man 1 hadn’t spoken. Though, he did spit “Americans” rather pointedly in Old Man 1’s direction. “It would be anarchy. What we need is more direct diplomacy. What do you think, Withers?” 

Old Man 3, “Withers”, apparently—how were these crones related to Claire?—swallowed a cube of Jell-O before speaking. “I’m with Milligan,” he said, gesturing to Old Man 2. “We need to be careful. No one wants another World War.” He regarded John with clear gray eyes and bushy white eyebrows. “What do you think, young man? Shall we go to war with the USSR?”

Bender felt like he’d been struck by lightning. Under the curious, pointed stares of the rich old guys, he longed to shrink inside his body like a damn turtle. “Uh…I think diplomacy?” That was a word they’d used, right? 

He must’ve said something right because Old Men 2 and 3 nodded in tandem. “See? Even the youth agrees. They don’t want to grow up amid nuclear winter, Jackson.”

Old Man 1, Jackson, he guessed, groused. “I still say we bomb ‘em!”

Claire grasped John’s arm and led him away as the old dudes argued amongst themselves. “Ignore them. They’re just rich, bored businessmen who have nothing to talk about but the current political climate. And congratulating themselves on being Masters of the Universe, of course.”

Of course.

“How are you even related to them?” John asked as they moved away and the sound of in-fighting grew more and more muffled. 

“My uncles,” she explained with an annoyed huff. “Great-uncles. My grandmother’s brothers. They’ll all live forever, I swear. And speak of the devil…” 

Sitting in a wheelchair, a blank-faced nurse rolled an older woman dressed head to toe in tiger-print toward them. She also donned a full face of makeup, heels, and a sparkly turban over her hair. John almost couldn’t believe what he was seeing. She looked like some aging silent film star who refused to let go of her glory days. Cigarette holder and highball included. 

“Claire, dear,” the lady said in a notable French accent, her voice clear as a bell in spite of the smoke. At least, he thought it was French. “Come. Give your grandmère a hug.” 

Obediently, Claire bent down and enveloped the old lady in an embrace. “Hi, Grandma.”

The old lady in tiger-print waved one clawed finger. Her nails were polished the brightest of reds. “Now, none of that, comprendre?” 

Claire straightened. “Sorry, Grandmère.”

“That’s better, ma fille.”

Queenie wore that same pained smile, like she had a stomach ache or something. Strange. He would’ve assumed that she’d blossom at an event like this, frolicking from group to group. Everyone here *was* related to her in some form or another, right? But Claire only regarded everyone they’d spoken to thus far with barely veiled contempt. She appeared to want to be anywhere else. 

Again, why did richies put themselves through stuff they really did not want to do in the first place? 

“This is John,” she said, pressing against his side like he was something to show off. When he knew he was not. At all. 

The old lady studied him from toe to top. Seemed to silently declare him unworthy. Then quickly turned away without a word. “I ‘ope you will be at the wedding, ma fille. I am so proud of Kimmy. Only nineteen and already she has snagged a husband. Grant just started working on Wall Street, you know. In bonds!” 

Another fucking yuppie. Lame. 

“I’ll be there if I don’t have school, Grandmother.” 

“It is on a Saturday.”

“…if I don’t have too much homework. Bye!” And she grabbed John’s elbow and led him away from the delightful old lady.

John glanced back over his shoulder. “You really going to the wedding?”

Claire’s face went stony. “I’d rather get a root canal, so no.” 

John chuckled. They spent the next two hours either awkwardly chatting with or effectively dodging people. Claire had to at least acknowledge her aunt, so she let the middle aged woman shallowly kiss her on the cheek, barely spare a look at John when Claire introduced him, and quickly walk away whilst calling someone named “Karen” and waving her hand trilling “Yoohoo!”. At three, Aunt Theresa led everyone in a toast to the “happy couple”, and Claire downed her champagne to the very last drop. 

At the end of the evening, Claire hugged her braggart cousin goodbye, John shook Boring Grant’s hand, then covertly spiked the punch bowl with the rum he carried around in a flask. He was only disappointed that he wouldn’t be around to witness its effects on all the richies. 

Brambles-hill drove them back to Claire’s abode with nary a word but a condemning grunt. There, in front of the porch, she twined her arms around his neck, kissed him with those amazing lips of hers, and beamed into his face. “Thank you for coming today. I know that wasn’t exactly ‘your thing.’”

John’s fingers burned where he touched her hips over the material of her dress. He barked a laugh. “Not my idea of a party, no.”

Claire stepped out of his hold, her beam transforming into a grin that was far more mischievous. “Maybe soon you can show me your idea of a party, John Bender.”

He crossed his arms and looked down at her, much the same way he had in the closet that day in detention, only three months previous but it felt as though a lifetime had passed since then. “I don’t know if you can handle it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Er, the second part is kinda sorta in Benny's POV but that won't happen much.
> 
> Note 2: Yeahhh senior year is gonna be way more....just more than junior.
> 
> Note 3: Stef McKee is creepily into Molly Ringwald's Andie Walsh in Pretty in Pink, right? 
> 
> Note 4:I don't have any more room on my profile for pics but for reference:  
> Stubbie=William Zabka  
> Ty=Laurence Fishburne  
> Laura=Farrah Fawcett  
> Jake=De Niro  
> Nora=Goldie Hawn  
> Megan=Phoebe Cates  
> The Luders=Elisabeth Shue, just one blonde and one brunette lols  
> Kimberly=Demi Moore  
> Grant=Tom Wilson (Back to the Future's Biff)  
> Vanessa Parker=Antonia Franceschi from Fame  
> Anthony Hewlitt=Michael Chambers from Breakin'  
> Leo Cortez=Adolfo Quinones also from Breakin'  
> Keith McDonald=John Cusack  
> Mark Davis=Jason Patric   
> Ash Langley=Michael J. Fox  
> Gavin Treadmore=Christian Slater  
> Jones=Elias Kotes  
> You know the rest
> 
> I love appropriate-era casting!


	13. Chapter 8: You Gotta Fight For Your Right to Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oook, this chapter will solely focus on our favorite couples. Sorry, Brian. You'll be first in the next part.

Friday, June 29th: 

Andy was not looking forward to meeting Allison’s parents.

At all.

They hadn’t planned this, not exactly. Andy, of course, was determined to keep Allison away from his father for as long as possible because the man was a dick and Andy couldn’t see him appreciating Ally for the awesome person she was. Carol, though…he could probably introduce her to his mom, but that would be difficult avoiding his father at the same time. 

Allison, too, had been reluctant to do the whole meet-the-folks thing. Her parents sounded even worse than his father was. They totally ignored their youngest daughter simply because she couldn’t—and didn’t want to—fulfil their ambitions for them. Andy considered this as he dressed (and redressed) for the evening—a pair of khaki Dockers he never wore and his mom swore he looked “so handsome” in and a white sweater. If he hadn’t proven the athlete, if he hadn’t exhibited the ambition and concentration and skill his father seemed to “require” in his sons, if he, instead of wrestling, showed that he would rather, say, act in the school play or try out for Band, would his old man reap the same attitude as Lenore and Joseph Reynolds in regards to their daughter? 

Would *he* have been ignored? Forsaken? Left to rot simply due to his interests? Be labeled a “disappointment” to his father?

Probably. 

Carol wouldn’t tolerate it, he knew. Any favoritism and intentional inattention. But his mom also had a hard time standing up to his old man. Tim would win the day, and that Andy from a different universe would be relegated to the sidelines. 

‘Jesus. Parents.’

Ally had had no intention of introducing him to Lenore and Joseph, he knew this. Alas, her father had peeped them walking down the street together on his way to work and publicly invited him to dinner at the house on Baron Drive. Andy, feeling the heat rise in his neck and his t-shirt beginning to choke him, had tentatively agreed. What else could he say? ‘No, both you and your wife are horrible. Yeah, that’d go over great. They’d forbid Ally to see me.’

Allison, for her part, had looked horrified. Either her father hadn’t noticed or ignored her. Again. Typical. 

So, against his better judgment, he prepared to Meet the Parents. He even slicked his hair back. And shucked the usual Nikes for some black dress shoes he’d worn once to a funeral. Then, once satisfied with his appearance, took a deep breath and trod downstairs. 

His younger brothers, Kyle and Jack, stopped him midway down the staircase. These days, Kyle and Jack were nearly attached to the hip, being close in age as they were. Jack was thirteen to Kyle’s almost eleven. 

“Look, it’s Raggedy Andy!” Kyle exclaimed, laughing at his own wit. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack agreed; Kyle, though the younger of the two, seemed to be the ringleader in Andy’s estimation. “Where’s Ann, Raggedy Andy?!” 

Both boys broke up, amused at their own shared inane jocularity. Andy rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “None of your damn business, you twidiots.” 

Somewhere, likely from the dining room it sounded like, Carol’s voice rang out in stern reprobation. “Andrew! Language! And don’t call your brothers ‘twidiots’!” 

Again, Andy rolled his eyes and called out a half-assed apology. This just made his twidiot brothers laugh harder, and he brushed past them down the stairs. 

However, Kyle and Jack weren’t done. 

“Where ya goin’, Raggedy Andy?” Kyle asked in a too-innocent tone. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack concurred. “You look like yer in a hurry, big bro.” 

Andy sighed. He wanted to run his hand through his hair in frustration, but it was slicked back like he was wearing a helmet. “If you must know,” he replied without turning around. “I’m going to see Allison.”

“Soooo, you *are* going to see Raggedy Ann!” Kyle guffawed, and he and Jack hi-fived. 

Andy grabbed the car keys to the Bronco off the nearby hook. “Shut up or I won’t get you candy on the way back.”

That, instantly, made the boys zip their lips. Quite literally, in Kyle’s case. 

Andy shook his blond head at his brothers’ antics, bid goodbye to his mom, pointedly ignored his father’s demands that he not fuck up his car and when was he gonna meet “this Allison” already, and headed out. He knew the way by heart now, winding the Bronco through the maze that was many of the Richieville developments. Yet, for the first time since the first date, Andy had to collect himself in the parked car before he coerced himself up the cobblestone path to knock on Allison’s door. She’d always answered herself; he hoped this time wasn’t to be an exception. 

It wasn’t. Ally answered the door after one knock like she was waiting on the other side, dressed head to toe in black. Eyes circled in black shit. Hair a bird’s nest. Even had smeared black lipstick on her mouth. She looked like she had in detention. Andy smirked. She was either in mourning tonight or trying to piss her parents off. Either option amused him greatly. 

Allison grabbed his arm and pulled him into the doorjamb. “I know, I know. I look like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark.” 

Andy shrugged sheepishly. “I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

“I know what you were thinking. Come on in and meet the folks…I guess.”

They already knew each other’s facial expressions. 

As he stepped into the immaculately decorated foyer, a leggy blonde came bouncing down the stairs, clad in an all-white sundress, almost like in reply to Allison’s black ensemble, skin tan and healthy, blue eyes bright. She looked like a "'Sports Illustrated" model. This could only be Ally’s sister, Eleanor.

“Oooh, is this *the boy*?” she taunted as she came to stand beside Allison. 

Ally’s black lips flattened. “His name’s Andy and yes, El.” 

Andy was taken aback when the older girl threw herself forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. She was at least five inches taller than he was. “Oh, my God! I’m so happy to meet you! Ally talks of nothing else, so I had to come out from California to meet this mystery guy today!”

Noticeably, Allison flushed beneath the pancake makeup she was wearing. “*Eleanor*! Jesus!” 

“What?” She disengaged from Andy and folded her hands on her hips. She truly looked bemused. “You *do* only talk about him!”

“You could’ve used some tact!”

“Tact is just not saying true stuff,” Eleanor scoffed, flipping her long blond hair over one shoulder. “I’ll pass, thanks.” 

Ally rolled her eyes like she was annoyed but was fighting a smile at the same time. Andy grinned. The sisters seemed to have a decent rapport. ‘At least one person’s on Allison’s side in this house.’’

“Er…nice to meet you,” he said awkwardly, stupidly patting her shoulder. He needed to get along with Eleanor. It may have been important to Allison. 

An older man quickly followed in Eleanor’s stead, one he recognized from the brief encounter he’d had with him—Joseph Reynolds, Allison’s father. Ally’s posture instantly began to sink. “Welcome, glad you could make it,” the tall blond man said in a hoity-toity accent, shaking Andy’s outstretched hand. He found Mr. Reynolds’ palm to be cold and clammy. ‘Kinda gross,’ he thought disingenuously. He was already quite prejudiced against this man—and his wife—after everything he’d learned about Ally. And all that she had admitted. 

As though reading his mind somehow, Joseph Reynolds glanced him up and down and very minutely thinned his lips, just enough for Andy to catch it. ‘He doesn’t like that I’m not “of his people.”’ Well, fuck that! It wasn’t like he could help to whom he was born! The guy was pissing him off already.

To hammer the point home, his gaze ticked to his youngest daughter, performed that same up and down thing, and cleared his throat. He looked embarrassed. “Allison. Don’t you want to go upstairs and change?”

Allison scowled in a way that said she’d expected just this response. “No, not really.”

The embarrassment on his face deepened. “But we have a guest…” 

Andy strode forward. He was not going to let this man make Ally feel like shit even more than he already did. “Actually, sir, it doesn’t matter to me. Truly.” It was on the tip of his tongue to thank him awkwardly for the sentiment—his mom had always instilled in him how necessary it was to be polite to his elders, hadn’t she?—but he bit it at the last second. A man like Mr. Reynolds did not deserve his politesse, even false politesse. 

The man cleared his throat again, uncomfortably staring at his shoes. Leather Ferragamo—his dad *loved* Ferragamo and often lamented that he couldn’t afford a pair; as a kid, Andy remembered watching him leaf through the pages of "Vogue" appreciatively, which probably hadn’t *only* been about the shoes, admittedly—he’d recognize the things anywhere. He was also dressed to the nines in a well-cut dark blue suit that had probably cost more than his old man’s Bronco. 

‘Of course.’ The Reynolds *did* reside in Richieville, after all. Allison could probably snatch her parents’ credit card and buy herself a wardrobe worth more than his entire house. ‘God knows Claire has done just that.’ Which was exactly why they’d have never worked as “steady dates”; he couldn’t tolerate that high-maintenance crap. Bender was going to be in for a whirlwind! Yet, he’d never glimpsed Ally in anything more expensive than a cashmere sweater, a few of which his own mother owned. Similarly, Eleanor, too, was dressed simply, just…bright? 

Whatever. Even the elder Reynolds sister’s dress appeared to be made of simple cotton, making Andy feel better about his own less than pricy apparel. The way he dressed, the way he *looked*, had never bothered him before—except when he had a zit—but merely being on the opposite end of that disapproving stare was enough to rankle any minute insecurities he had. 

‘Good grief. If that stare is bothering me after *one* time, I can only imagine how Ally must feel.’ Nearly seventeen whole years of disapproving stares from her own father. 

Soon enough, a woman in an off white skirt suit drifted down the staircase as she affixed an earring into a lobe. She looked *very* much like Allison. If not for the minute smile lines around her eyes and mouth, they could’ve been twins. 

This could only be her mother. The infamous Lenore Reynolds. 

“Sorry I’m late,” she trilled, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “I had to exfoliate. Allison, honestly! What are you wearing?!” 

Ally opened her mouth, likely to fire back a retort, before Andy intervened with the same words he’d spoken to Mr. Reynolds; he didn’t want to be the cause of a family quarrel. The woman turned her smile on Andy and upped the wattage. She made no move to shake his hand, however. “Oh!” she tittered like she hadn’t seen him standing there before now. “You must be this Andrew I’ve been hearing so much about.”

“Mom, really,” Ally snarked; she looked like she was a minute away from walking straight into a wall. “I’ve barely mentioned him to you. And I *do* talk about other things.” This last was pointedly directed toward her sister. 

`` The glint as sharp as steel was evident in her eyes whilst she regarded her youngest daughter. “Don’t be rude, Allison.” And then, she effortlessly turned back to the small gathering and clapped her hands. “Well! Shall we adjourn to the dining room?”

This was going to be a fun night, Andy could tell.

**  
Meanwhile, as the Sport was undergoing torture at the hands of his girlfriend’s parents, the Criminal was taking the Princess up on her offer. It was only fair, Claire conceded as she looked herself in the mirror for the nth time that evening. He’d suffered through one of her family’s “get-togethers”—she couldn’t imagine John to be much of a fan of canapés and softly lilting Mozart—and hadn’t even been at all an asshole about it (except for when Kimberly called her later that night to complain about someone having spiked the punch; she could figure out who’d done *that* and it totally wasn’t entertaining at all, nope) she’d called him up and decided to make good on her offer. To show her what he deemed a *real* party. 

Okay, whatever. Again for the nth time, Claire, exasperated, trod back to her wardrobe and threw something else on the bed. ‘What does one wear to a heavy metal vomit party?’ She certainly didn’t have any A/C D/C band tees or, like, fishnets. She had some lace tights but she highly doubted that qualified. Annoyed, she changed into a leather skirt that was *way* too short and this black top with lace sleeves she’d found in Contempo Casuals and bought it because she thought it was Madonna-esque. She finished off the look with thigh-high boots she’d purchased because they were by a favorite designer but hadn’t had the chance to wear. Truly, not in school! Benny would have a field day. 

Gazing into the antique full-length mirror that had once belonged to her grandmother, she shrugged. ‘I guess this will do’. Quickly, she threw half her hair back in a black scrunchie—it was too short for the whole thing—added some cheap but fun silver square bangles, and bright pink hoop earrings. Claire had to wear her signature color *somewhere*. 

The makeup was more challenging. Claire Standish was used to soft, pastel colors. Subtle shades that would bring out her features without shading over them, unlike what seemed to be the norm lately, at least according to music videos and stuff. Girls in bright blue eye shadow and hot pink lipstick and rings of black shit stared back at her from the pages of "Seventeen" and "Sassy". ‘And those crusty bangs—ew!’ *That*, surely, was not an addition she was going to add tonight. 

Eventually, she decided upon this inky mascara that really made her eyes pop and elongated her lashes—alas, she’d only had the courage to wear it once then never again after Benny commented “Girls, look! Claire’s got spiders on her eyelids! Poor Claire!”—and dabbed the corners of her eyes and the tops of her cheeks with this body glitter she’d gotten at a new store called Claire’s, a cheap cosmetic she’d only bought because she needed something from her namesake’s store. For the piece de resistance, she finished with this awesome matte lipstick from NARS called Cherry Bomb. 

Satisfied, she grabbed a small change purse for just the essentials and left the house. Her father’s three attack dogs—all Rottweilers named Zeke, Deke, and Beak; Beak had a really long snout—sniffed at her curiously as she trotted through the living parlor. This new perfume definitely did not smell like her usual flowery body lotion. 

When she met John at the corner by the STOP sign, he looked his usual self in torn jeans and flannel, just done up a notch. He was also riding a circumspect-looking motorcycle. 

Claire watched him do a double-take when he took her in, looking not at all like herself. His jaw unhinged, and she could practically hear the “Tom and Jerry”-like sound effects. 

Claire grinned in triumph. ‘Guess I made the right choice of outfit, after all.’

John blinked, lifting his helmet’s visor over his head. “Holy shit!”

Still, Claire could not help but feel a bit self-conscious. Tonight, she may as well have been playing dress-up as she had when she was a little girl. Her hands wandered over her body. “Um. Do I look… I mean, i—is it okay?”

John was nodding like a dope. “Claire, you look…l—like you’re dripping of sex.” 

She hadn’t missed that little catch in his words, either. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

` For his part, he did not miss a beat. “I, personally, think that is a *very* good thing. My pants, however, do not.”

She laughed and gestured to the bike humming beneath him. “Er…will we be taking *that* tonight?”

He briefly took his eyes off her to glance at his machine of death. “No. I just thought it was a fun accessory. Goes with the image, you know.”

Claire was still staring at the bike dubiously. “I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before. Is it safe?”

“Only one way to find out.” And he passed her a second helmet, identical to his own. 

Claire sighed and carefully climbed on the back of the…thing. Then claimed the helmet and plopped it on her head. 

When he revved the engine and started up the bike, Claire screamed the whole way to his neighborhood. John laughed the entire time. She pretended to be annoyed at this but secretly thought his easy command of the machine to be kinda hot. He knew what he was doing on it, that was for sure. 

For a second, just a second, that notion made her wonder what and where *else* he knew what he was doing, and that made Claire blush beneath the silver body glitter. ‘Well. He’s already a good kisser, so…’ 

It wasn’t entirely a false equivalency. 

They pulled up to a sort of ramshackle house, totally nondescript, really—except for the fact that people were pouring out of it. All dressed in binding party clothes and clutching red cups filled with who knew what. John eased the bike inside an open garage and turned off the engine. Then assisted her off the back seat because she was kind of having issues in her thigh high boots. 

“*This* is where the party is?” She gazed about herself, uncertain. 

John folded his arms over his flannel shirt. “What’s a-matter, Princess? Not posh enough for you?”

She shrugged. “I just thought it’d be, like, in a club or something.”

John shook his head. “My buddy, Gav’s, house is party central in this part of town. His parents are never home and have this wicked stereo equipment that may or may not have ‘fallen off the back of a truck.’” 

Claire giggled. John *would* have a friend whose parents had mob connections. 

He grinned at her reaction. “They also have this big ass room and there’s, like, nothing in it but the stereo. I think it’s supposed to be the living room, but they never bothered to put furniture in it.”

His friend’s parents sounded pretty chilled out. They could’ve given her mother some advice.

They trod up this slightly overgrown pathway, up the porch, and into the house. Claire felt his hand linger at the small of her back and shivered. 

The room in question was right at the front of the house. Claire could see now why this nondescript home in a working class neighborhood was party central in the southern partof Shermer. The lights were off, but she could clearly make out, amidst the frenzied dancing and shouting of her fellow party-goers, a towering Sony with dual speakers and surround sound. Colorful strobe lights—the source of which she could not find—bounced around the room, landing on people she only vaguely recognized from some of her classes. 

This was not “her crowd”. Not at all. 

John shrugged off his trademark denim jacket and let it plop to the floor uncaringly. A floor that was littered with cigarette butts, stray plastic cups, a condom or two. ‘Ew.’ Her parents would *murder* her if she threw a party like this in her own home. This “Gav” must’ve had really lenient folks. 

A tall boy with dark hair and pierced ears dressed in all black—including one of those dusters—pushed his way through the maddening crowd with a big grin. “Bender! Glad you could show your esteemed self this fine eve.” 

John rolled his eyes. “Gav, don’t be such a drama queen.” 

Ah. So, this was “Gav”. Gavin, she supposed. Gavin Treadmore? Claire thought that he’d been in her English Lit class sophomore year. Thought. He was a good-looking guy, in a messy, dangerous rock star-slash-serial killer kind of way. She was sure that he’d managed to turn a few heads belonging to her own crowd. 

Gav chuckled and slapped John on the shoulder. “You know the party doesn’t start without you here, dude.” Then, he turned to regard Claire, raised two inky black eyebrows, and smirked. “And who is this, prey tell?”

He didn’t recognize her at all. Claire didn’t know whether to congratulate herself on her stunningly convincing outfit or be offended that she, Claire Standish, wasn’t instantly recognizable. She’d won Spring Fling Queen last year! Her photo had been everywhere in the halls. 

John gestured to Claire and then to Gavin. “Claire, Gav. Gav, Claire.”

Gavin didn’t move his eyes from his friend. “Claire, huh? Another one, Bender? Holly’s gonna be maaaaad.” 

‘”Another one”? Oh, hell no! And who the fuck is Holly?' 

John looked just as pissed as she felt. He pursed his lips and barked, “Bite me, Gav. Jesus, she’s *right here*, you know. The music’s not *that* loud.” 

Gavin looked surprised at his buddy’s outburst and lifted his hands palm-out in surrender. “Sorry, bro. And, uh—“ Finally, he spun on the toe of one black combat boot. “—sorry, uh, Claire? Claire. Didn’t mean to be an asshole.”

Claire nodded, accepting the apology for what it was. “No problem. You can make it up to me by getting me a beer.” 

She didn’t really like the taste of beer that much but hey. When in Rome, right?

Gavin’s brows rose again. Though, this time, he looked impressed. “One beer for the lady. And I assume for the…you.” He produced two sweating Heinekens out of nowhere. Like fucking magic.

John and Claire took their proffered green bottles. “Where’re your folks this time?” John yelled above the music.

Gav waved him off. “Ah, I think they’re at some rally in Rockford.” 

‘Rally?’ Claire was picturing a pep rally; she didn’t think that was where the Treadmores were. 

“Gav’s parents are hippies,” John explained upon viewing her perplexed visage. 

“Yeah,” Gav agreed with a nod and a nonchalant shrug. “They travel around the Midwest attending rallies and protests about legalizing hemp and closing down weapons manufacturers and shit.”

Ah. That explained it. Claire nodded, amused at the mental picture of two aging maybe mafiosa hippies traveling around the Midwest in a VW van. It’d definitely be in a VW van. 

“They get some major good weed, though,” John added, sipping from his bottle. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “You never told me who the hell their connection is, Gav. I’d pay double for shit like that.”

Gavin shrugged in his large coat again. “I have no idea, either. Probably an old ‘Nam protest friend. A Willie Nelson type. You know they were at that famous protest in ’68? The one at the Democratic National Convention in Chitown?” 

John lowered his Heineken again. “No shit?”

` Gavin chuckled. “Yeah, man! I got a picture. In it, my mom is wearing this hippie headband and raising her fist and shouting. Dad’s behind her waving a peace sign. Photo’s framed. They’re really proud of it. I’ll show ya later. They took off and left me with the neighbor when they heard about it.”

“Weren’t you, like, one?”

“Yeah.”

John escorted her inside the party room or whatever. And said party certainly was hopping. Everywhere, scantily clad girls and pierced and mohawked guys jumped and thrashed to the music, which she thought was Led Zeppelin. ‘Whatever. They’re no Duran Duran.’ John raised his fist, formed the “rock on” symbol, and shouted into the congested party. 

Claire honestly didn’t know what to make of this whole…scene…until she glimpsed someone she very much recognized—for there, at the front of the room on a raised dais, danced Ferris Bueller, one of the most popular guys in the school. Everybody seemed to like Ferris, and the wasteoids weren’t an exception. Clad in a pair of jeans and his usual flamboyant vest—this one cow-print—he jumped around bopping his head to the music and thrashing with the best of ‘em. Beside him stood his comparably taciturn best friend, Cameron Frye, gazing at Ferris out the corner of his eye and shaking his head. 

And that was when Claire laughed and decided to screw it, she’d just have fun. That was what she was here for, right? Well, that and John. Carefully hopping up and down in her teetering heeled boots, Claire bobbed her head up and down to the, ahm, “music’s” beat. Getting more and more into it with each passing song. 

She could feel John’s eyes on her as Ferris dove into the crowd following a rousing rendition of Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs”. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Claire Standish!” Ferris exclaimed when he approached her after the crowd put him down. “I certainly didn’t expect to see *you* here.”

Claire beamed. She knew that *Ferris*, at least, would recognize her. “And I didn’t expect to see *you* here. Or Cameron, as a matter of fact.”

Ferris waved her off. “Ah, I dragged Sir Grumpy von Buzzkill out of the house. It’s…not the best place. He needed to loosen up. I always come to Mr. Treadmore’s parties! They’re a blast!” 

Claire laughed and glanced over her shoulder toward Cameron. He still had his arms crossed over his chest but was nodding along to the music now. 

“John!” Ferris abruptly spun on the heel of his white spat to regard her…date?...for the evening. “Well, of course I’d run into you here. Wait, wait.” Splaying two fingers, he gestured between the both of them…and their proximity. “Are you two here *together*?”

Claire bit her lip and gazed down at the pointed toes of her boots, uncharacteristically shy. John merely growled and pushed Ferris’ shoulder. “Not your business, Bueller.” 

Ferris raised his palms just as Gav had done. “Just pointing out the unexpectedness of…that. Got *damn*, how the hell did *this* happen?” 

“Again, Bueller, not your business. I like you. Don’t make me punch you in the face.”

Ferris chortled and knocked back his own drink. “I’ve seen you fight. I like my odds. Have fun guys!”

Just as he was about to reenter the throng, Cameron in his Gordy Howe jersey approached wearing an annoyed expression, hands clamped over his ears. “Ferris, I’ve got a headache! Can we *go* now, please?” 

Ferris rolled his eyes and sipped his beer. “Cameron, I swear you were born a fifty-year-old man.” 

They both disappeared into the crowd. Claire shook her head, laughing as she watched them go. 

Mötley Crüe’s “Too Young to Fall in Love” started up, and John jogged into the mosh pit, shouting. Claire laughed and followed him. Jumping up and down. Getting lost in the music and the moment. 

She’d never realized how…liberating these heavy metal vomit parties were.

**  
At Shermer’s other end, Allison observed Andy where he sat across from her at the expansive dining room table and ducked her head to hide her smirk. Poor guy looked absolutely miserable. And bewildered. Which was generally how she herself felt when dealing with her parents. 

“Is this caviar Beluga?” Lenore perked her head up to ask their private chef. Everyone in Richieville had a fucking private chef. Theirs was a long roster because their chefs kept quitting after dealing with Lenore Reynolds for too long. “I only eat Beluga.”

“There’s…more than one kind of caviar?” Andy asked whilst he studied his blini, the little blue fish eggs on top. 

Lenore looked at him like he was a quaint oaf. “Indeed. There is salmon. Siberian sturgeon. American osetra. Etcetera.” 

“Oh…” Andy still looked perplexed and cautiously bit into his blini. He swallowed harshly, gagged, and replaced the half-eaten aperitif on his square-cut plate. 

Allison grinned, rolled her eyes at her mom, and bit viciously into her own blini. ‘So what? Who cares if he doesn’t know every kind of caviar. Jeez Louise!’

“So, Andrew,” her father began as he cut into his miniature steak. Joseph was always served his entrée first in this house. “What is it that your parents do?”

Andy cleared his throat as the Reynolds’ new chef, a woman just out of culinary school in Paris, set a plate of fillet mingon and red potatoes before him. Even a dish as quintessentially normal and homespun and American as steak and potatoes had to be served as obnoxiously as possible in the Reynolds home. “Um, well, sir, my mother is an RN at Shermer General. And my father is a welder.”

Joseph Reynolds did not like that answer, Allison could tell. A *welder*?! How gauche! “A welder, you say? For what company?”

“Um.” Andy was patently uncomfortable with this line of questioning, and Allison wanted to reach over and squeeze his hand in support. As she could not, she gently prodded his shin underneath the table and smiled. “He works for that plastic factory on Washington.” 

Washington Avenue. About ten minutes from Andy’s home in the Everything Else. Decidedly middle class. Not good enough for Allison’s patrician father, who had been born into wealth in Philadelphia and now worked as a lawyer—after his own father, Allison’s Grandfather Reynolds, had donated a wing to Yale Law School—in Chicago. 

Allison scoffed. She didn’t care *what* her parents thought. 

Eleanor, though…

For the first time that evening, El spoke up, turning the awkward conversation around to something Andy was more comfortable with. Allison could’ve kissed her. “So. Andy. I hear you’re a wrestler at the high school!”

Her boyfriend sagged in relief. “You heard right. I’ve got a meet this Saturday.”

In the summers, Andy had "practice meets" in order to keep fit for the fall season. They were voluntary, but his dad insisted that he participate.

Eleanor cut into her steak. For some reason, she took it rare. Like “cow still mooing on the plate” rare. “Who are you up against?”

“South Glen South. The Rams. Their starter is said to be huge.” 

“Oh!” El exclaimed as she prodded a potato. “I dated a guy at South Glen South. Blond dude. Way obsessed with hockey. Remember, Al? He used to come over looking like Jason Voorhees.”

Allison cackled in recollection. “Hopefully, minus the ax.” 

Unless Eleanor had a weird kink or something. ‘Yuck.’ 

Lenore drank from her crystal glass of red wine. Eyeing Andy with tactical grace, as usual. “And where do you live, young man?”

Andy tensed up again. He could read her mother’s tone as easily as she could. “I’m on Eastman. Near Roosevelt Park.” 

Her mother did not like *that*, either. Allison watched as Lenore shared That Look with her husband. The one that Ally herself had been on the receiving end of many times. “And…once you graduate, what do you intend to do?”

He shrugged. “Probably go to college. I’m working toward a scholarship.” 

The word “scholarship” was a physical manifestation of “nowhere near good enough” in Allison’s family. She loathed how classist they were. Her gaze flicked toward Eleanor, who was also sick of her parents’ elitist antics. Her sister shook her head and sighed. 

“A scholarship, you say?” Joseph Reynolds picked up that strain of conversation and ran with it. “A partial scholarship?”

“No. Full ride.” 

Lenore took another sip of her alcohol. “Oh, it was nothing to send Eleanor to school. She took some classes here, but we wanted her to go to Stanford. Alas, she preferred otherwise.” 

Eleanor leaned her head back against her chair. “Mom. Really! I’m a photographer; just…deal with it.”

“You could’ve been a model and a doctor like me. Instead, you dropped out—“ 

“—I didn’t *want* to be a doctor like you! God, I can’t believe we’re still having this argument!”

“Young lady, you will *not* use that tone of voice with me!”

Eleanor slowly rose to her feet, bracing both hands atop the table. “Then, stop bringing up this stupid argument!” 

“Eleanor,” Joseph barked but did not rise from his chair. Or take his eyes off his medium—rare fillet mignon. “Don’t sass your mother.” 

“I’m not ‘sassing’ her! I’m using *logic*, which has apparently left the building.”

Lenore stood on spindly legs and tottering high heels. “Do not tempt me, miss. I will cut you off!”

“Good! I don’t need you; I’m doing fine. As a *photographer*!”

“Eleanor Grace Reynolds—“

For his part, Andy was gawking at this overt display of familial drama, bopping his gaze between Eleanor and Lenore like it was a tennis match. Allison was slightly embarrassed but was also quite used to this. 

Eleanor pulled away from the dining room table, marched into the parlor, and produced her purse, which she angrily adjusted over her shoulder. “Allison, I’ll be at the Holiday Inn if you need me. Andy, it was nice to meet you.” And then stomped off without a look back. Out the door and speeding away in her white Corvette. 

The only sound in the room was the echo of utensils scratching on porcelain plates. Andy’s eyes were as wide as saucers. Joseph hadn’t removed his steely-eyed stare from his plate. Lenore sat there sipping her wine. 

Allison leaned back in her seat and folded her hands over her stomach. “So. Dessert, anyone?”

**  
The night was going well.

Or, at least, John thought it was. He would never have imagined how *into it all* Claire was getting, jumping around to the music in those sexy as hell thigh high boots of hers. In that sexy as hell outfit. She had turned quite a few heads tonight; he knew…because he’d had to fight the urge to punch out a mofo every few minutes. And John wasn’t that great a fighter; he was willing to admit this. 

Also surprising—Claire could hold her liquor. Mayhap it had something to do with all those booze-soaked “get-togethers” he was sure were rampant amongst the gazillionaires of the world. Or maybe her mother really was a rich drunk who fluttered off to the Caribbean sometimes. John didn’t know for sure, obviously. However, the Princess had been knocking back beer after beer all night without a seeming issue. He wouldn’t have even guessed she was just slightly buzzed by the look of her. 

And he *really* enjoyed looking at her. Especially tonight. 

Unfortunately, so did other dudes. Everyone from Gav’s twelve-year-old neighbor (who frequented his parties but Gav never let the kid drink anything harder than Gatorade) to, hell, his buddy, Jones, had hit on her. He’d had to pull Jones aside and warn him to keep his mitts *off*. On pain of death. 

Only Ferris had seemed to recognize her, though. All night. He didn’t think she looked *that* different, but whatever. Even Ty, who’d been on the receiving end of a Princess-sponsored barb or two in the past, hadn’t guessed. And the guy had been right in front of her! Just like Gav. Ty merely looked her up and down, nodded approvingly, and meandered off to (presumably) smoke his newest batch of Pineapple Express sativa in a drum circle out back with Jones and Ash and a few other of his fellow burnouts. 

Yep, the evening was going good, other than the occasional asshole he yearned to wedgie for putting the moves on *his* date. Yes, he was pretty sure he had a fucking date. One he was actually proud to have on his arm when he wandered in here. Because *damn*, she really was dripping in sex tonight. 

Then, he noticed Holly Grier directly approaching him across the dancefloor/living room, and the night was ruined.

He couldn’t escape. Not subtly, anyway. Not with her having already seen him. John unperceptively glanced around him. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He was surrounded by thrashing party-goers, and Claire was off chatting with Bueller somewhere. Ty, Jones, and Ash were out back smoking up. And Gav was no help. When he noticed who was advancing with a determined stride, his friend only laughed and punched his shoulder. 

“Mayday! Mayday! Looks like your Number One Fan is approaching,” Gav snarked, drinking down a good couple gulps of whatever shitty pisswater was inside that keg in the kitchen. 

John groaned underneath his breath. It wasn’t that he didn’t *like* Holly or anything. Not as a person. It was just...he’d stupidly hooked up with her a few times in the past, and she was   
taking it all too far. As always, he’d been very upfront with her about what he was looking for—pure, unadulterated teenage fun. But John had foolishly broken his usual “TWICE ONLY” rule where Holly was concerned because…oof. The things that woman could do with her hands. 

However, she’d seemed to have taken that lapse in judgment as proof that he wanted more than he was absolutely not willing to offer. Not to Holly. 

Claire, though…

He didn’t know just *how* he felt about Claire, but whatever it was, it was definitely different from how he felt about Holly. And Ashley. And Miranda. And Suzanne. And Kim. 

She looked hot tonight, John had to admit. The short black dress hugged Holly’s curves perfectly and crisscrossed over toned shoulders. Ty had once drawled that Holly had “Dead Man’s Curves”—those things could be dangerous. He would know. They’d drawn him back into her bed once or twice. 

With long, silky brown hair and naturally tanned skin, Holly Grier was a knockout and she knew it. She’d made guys crawl on their bellies before for a chance with her. But John was not going to be one of them, not tonight, not ever again. 

Besides, he was kind of developing a thing for redheads. 

Gav laughed at the stricken, pained look on his face, no doubt like he’d eaten some bad Taco Bell (which was all bad in his estimation; delicious, though, damnit), patted his arm once more, and grinned as Holly came to a stop in front of them both. 

“Why, Ms. Grier,” Gav cried, mock-bowing. “Glad you could make it tonight, sweet pea.” 

“Don’t call me ‘sweet pea’, Gavin,” Holly remarked in her smoky voice. That voice could make men weak at the knees—and had. 

“My apologies. I guess I’m not the *right* guy for endearments.” Glancing between John and Holly, Gav smirked once more and added “I will leave you two alone to…commiserate” before ducking back into the throng. 

John scowled at his retreating back. ‘Thanks for leaving me to the wolf, asshole.’ No fucking help. 

“So,” Holly drawled, feigning nonchalance. “I didn’t expect you here tonight.”

John shrugged. “Why not? I always come to Gav’s parties.”

Holly sipped at her bottle of Corona. “You were late, so I figured you had something else to do.”

He was late because he’d stopped to pick up Claire. And to make sure that his bike was in proper working order to accommodate two people. He didn’t usually let chicks ride with him. Not on the bike, anyway. He’d bought the Harley for fifty bucks off Jones’ manager at the chop shop he worked at during the summers. The guy had been about to cut it all up for the scrap, but John saw the potential in her. The bike was his and his alone. 

But…he’d picked up Claire on it. What did *that * mean? 

John quirked a dark brow and knocked back his Heineken. The third of the night. “You were watching for me, I take it.”

He’d wished to take back the words as soon as they were out of his mouth because he knew Holly. Just as he would’ve predicted, she stepped closer to him and smiled up into his face. Her lips were coated in that shiny shit, but it did not look as good on her as it did on Claire. The color was off. 

‘…oh, God, she’s rubbing off on me already.’ 

“Always,” she purred—literally purred, like a dang cat. Moving even closer to him, she trailed one hand down his arm, half-exposed in his t-shirt, without taking her eyes off of him. John’s gaze darted to Claire in the other room to ascertain she hadn’t seen; she was still busy talking with Bueller. “Why don’t we…disappear for a little while?”

John took a step back. A big step back. His mind was not tempted, but his body was not always in line with said mind and forced him to do stupid things. Like sleeping with Holly more than twice. “I don’t think so.”

Holly frowned, pouting. “Ohhh! Don’t be like that…”

He sighed, raking his free hand through his hair. He had not wanted to do this tonight. No siree. He’d just hoped to mosh around to some good tunes, drink some good(ish) beer, maybe kiss Claire some more… “Hol. Whatever…*this*…was between you and me, it’s over. Way over.”

The girl was not deterred, however. “You’ve said that before…and you still came back to my room a few times…” 

John winced. He shouldn’t have broken that rule. But, well, he *was* a teenage guy, after all. And Holly’d been more than willing. Was still more than willing. Difference was, now he wasn’t. “Yeah, but I mean it this time. It’s done. Over. Kaput. I, uh, brought someone else here tonight.” 

Unintentionally, his gaze slid back to Claire. Damn but she really looked good tonight. Her luscious legs were just barely visible between her miniskirt and the thigh highs, one cocked temptingly. Her hair was coming loose from its coiffure. Her top exposed a tantalizing swath of midriff. He could go on and on. 

Unfortunately, Holly managed to catch his very brief change in eye line. “*Her*? Since when are you into redheads?” 

A closed-off, almost dangerous look dawned in John’s eyes. “Not your damn business who I’m into.” 

“She can’t compete with me!” 

“So you say.” John scoffed and walked away, ignoring Holly calling his name behind him. He did not need her shit tonight. 

Instead, he approached Claire and curled one hand over her bicep. “You ready to go?” he called in her ear. “I’m not really feelin’ this place tonight.” 

He was not feeling being eye-stalked by Holly Grier. 

“Why, John, I’m surprised at you!” Bueller, who had ears like an owl, cried with an exaggerated gasp. “This party is right up your alley! And Cameron hasn’t even left yet. In spite of his many attempts to do so.” 

Claire placed her bottle of beer down on a nearby coffee table. “Yeah, I’m ready. I’m a little tired.”

“Probably from all that thrash dancing,” John remarked; Claire laughed and, belated, nodded in agreement. 

He bent down to search for his jacket among the pile in the corner. Trench coat, windbreaker, leather jacket…ah, there it was! John pulled his worn-in denim over his shoulders and escorted a jacketless Claire through the lingering party-goers…and those who’d had a wee bit too much to drink and were either sleeping it off on any available space or puking in the bushes. 

She didn’t scream this time on the bike ride home. But she did grasp his waist and pressed herself against his back a bit tighter than she had earlier. John had to refocus on the road time and time again to avoid getting into an accident. 

At the STOP sign on the corner of Sycamore and Main, they lingered, staring at each other. John rocked on his heels. He did not want this night to end, he had just hoped to get away from Holly, but Claire was tired, and he didn’t know how to prolong the evening. 

Claire (sexily) bit her lip and gazed up at him through those long lashes of hers. Jesus, she was going to be the end of him. Poof, gone. But…he couldn’t bring himself to walk away; he was already drawn in to her orbit. 

Well, fuck. 

Did she share his thoughts? Maybe she didn’t particularly want the night to end, either. She *was* doing that chick thing. You know. Twittering and staring at him almost expectantly. 

John had no idea what to say, what to do. How to go from here. He was completely gobsmacked where she was concerned. His tongue completely tied up. And his lips felt numb. His fingers tingled. Either he was really into her or he was about to have a stroke. 

Claire shivered in her revealing (for her) outfit, and he immediately shrugged off his denim jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. There. That, he knew to do. 

Then, she asked him what he was doing for the upcoming fourth, and he blinked in surprise. And confusion. “Uh…Ty and I usually set off fire crackers in the woods to scare the hell out of people.” 

Claire giggled. “Think you can take a raincheck on those plans? A carnival’s coming to Roosevelt Park.” 

Again, like a dunce, John blinked. “A carnival?” he asked like he’d never heard of the word. 

Claire cocked her head and jutted out her hip. He was coming to understand that this was her sarcastic, no-nonsense stance. “Yes, John, a carnival. You know, a fun place outdoors where there are games and rides and food that’s horrible for you? Roosevelt puts on the same carnival every fourth.” 

A carnival, eh? He hadn’t been to one of those since he was a kid. “I think I can 86 the fire cracker plans this year. I—if you wanted to go, I mean.” ‘Jesus, did my voice just crack? I sound like Braniac again.’ 

That was what she was doing to him. Turning back the clock and making him pubescent again. 

“Sure! I mean, if you want…” 

Would they ever get past this awkwardly making plans stage? Dang, he hoped so. And that kind of freaked him out. But not enough to push on the brakes. 

John nodded, and Claire beamed. “Pick me up on Tuesday? At, say, sevenish?” 

Once again, he bobbed his head like a dork. Only when she hesitantly turned to walk back to her massive house did he call out her name, reach out for her arm, and pull her to him. He kissed her, but this kiss was different. It wasn’t like their habitual face-sucking; it was slower, more practiced, dare he say it, more fucking romantic. As when he’d kissed her out in the lot after detention. 

Claire, a tad breathless (he gave himself props for that) softly bid him goodnight and wandered back up the street. He watched her go until he couldn’t make her out anymore, uncoordinatedly stumbled back to his bike, climbed on, and rode away. 

Fuck. Claire Standish really *was* going to be the end of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Any specific date mentioned in this fic, same as in We All Gotta Grow Up Sometime, are the actual corresponding dates in the year 1984. June 29th was really the last Friday of June, Tuesday was really July 4th, etc. lol I Googled and found a calendar website. I wasn't even born yet in '84.
> 
> Note 2: Jack and Kyle were "played" by Rob Lowe and Ethan Hawke respectively in the first fic. So just...picture younger versions? I guess? lolz
> 
> Note 3: Elvira's first televised appearance was in 1981 so yeah she would've been a thing in '84.
> 
> Note 4: Yet another Buffy quote I eked in there lol I am compelled. "Tact is just not saying true stuff. I'll pass." -Cordelia, Killed By Death in season 2 after Giles asks her if she's ever even heard of tact. Jeez, I know that show by heart. That's sad.
> 
> Note 5:*as Mr. Burns* "Release the hounds!"
> 
> Note 6: "Sassy" Magazine was a teenage girl centric mag that was discontinued in the late 90s I think. It was pretty big in the 80s. "Seventeen" is obvi still a thing.
> 
> Note 7: The antiwar protest of 1968 occurred in Chicago outside the Democratic National Convention. For eight days, protestors were greeted by Chicago PD. They protested in the streets and in a park nearby, where many slept, too. Pitched tents and stuff.
> 
> Note 8: Gav is Christian Slater circa J.D. in "Heathers" lol, I modeled him after J.D. totally. #NoRegrats
> 
> Note 9: South Glen South was the high school featured in :"Never Been Kissed" which also takes place in the Chicago 'burbs. Eleanor's ex is Michael Vartan's character, since he seemed to be into hockey lol and would've gone to school at same time she did.
> 
> Note 10: lol Pineapple Express
> 
> Note 11: Holly would be a "Saved By the Bell" circa Tiffani Thiessen lol she was a bit *young* in 1984 (like "barely a teenager" young) but that was the look I was going for.


	14. Chapter 9: Another One Bites the Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Gobble Gobble if you're American! Happy Thursday if you're not!

Chapter 9: Another One Bites the Dust

Brian was finding it hard to concentrate. He didn’t entirely want to be here. 

“Here” being Larry’s basement, the Saturday before the fourth. He could not keep making up excuses to ditch their weekly Dungeons & Dragons sessions, so he’d swallowed his pride and anted up. Literally, kind of. They were using Monopoly money. 

Larry, Farmer Ted, and Phil had decided, without asking him, of course, to eschew the usual D&D this fine Saturday’s eve in exchange for “Star Trek” Monopoly. Brian was winning; he had hotels on Kronos (Park Place), Romulus (Marvin Gardens), and Cardassia (Boardwalk), and he was raking in the (fake) dough. Yet, his mind kept wandering. Spacing out. Absurd, really. He’d been anticipating the release of “Star Trek” Monopoly; he’d saved up for it. Why, he loved “Star Trek”! Alas, his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of the Breakfast Club. 

Had they gone to Peggy Sue’s as usual? Were they laughing in their booth as Andy ordered entrée after entrée and Bender stuffed his face with a side of beef? 

How about the girls? Were they amusedly annoyed at their respective paramours? Or had the entire group, sans himself, taken the day to spend time elsewhere? Perhaps with each other? 

Brian loathed the notion that they were of having fun without him. But Larry, Ted, and Phil were his friends, too, and he felt increasing guilt for continuing to lie to them. Larry was so trusting; he took Brian’s bullshit excuses at face value, which just made him feel all the worse. Ted and Phil were a bit more circumspect. Suspicious. 

He couldn’t blame them, really. Brian had certainly not been around and available as often as he generally was. He’d missed an unforgiveable amount of D&D parties. Not to mention Larry’s birthday last week. He couldn’t believe that he’d forgotten! Brian and Larry had been inoperable for as long as he could remember. Best friends since pre-K. In apology, Brian had sheepishly given him a belated birthday present—the Lego version of the Death Star, complete with miniature Stormtroopers and a Darth Vader—and while he had waved off Brian’s contrition, he could tell that Ted and Phil remained skeptical. 

“Brian!” a familiar voice Brian realized belonged to Farmer Ted barked; he abruptly returned to the present, his vision clearing. Ted, Phil, and Larry were staring at him, the first two with plain annoyance and the last wearing mere curiosity. “Hello, Spock! It’s your roll!” 

All of the guys were sort of haphazardly dressed as their favorite “Star Trek” character. Farmer Ted wore the gold sweater belonging to Captain Kirk. Larry had donned the red shirt and infamous scotch tumbler of Montgomery “Scotty” Scott, and Phil “Duckie” Dale had gone all out, as was his wont, with a wig, a bumpy forehead prosthetic, fangs, and a toy bat’leth; he was a Klingon, obviously. 

As for Brian himself, he was Spock, Captain Kirk’s beloved Vulcan commander and science officer. He wore the blue sweater. A dark-haired wig with blunt-cut bangs. And a plastic headband with pointed ears on either end. 

All of them, minus Phil, boasted the Starfleet badge in the corner of their shirts. “Star Trek” had been over for decades, but the dream was still alive in Larry Lester’s basement. 

Alas, Brian kept finding it difficult to concentrate. And it was frustrating his friends. 

Grabbing the Enterprise-stamped dice, Brian jiggled them in his palms before letting them drop on top of the gsmeboard. Eleven. He landed on Starbase 8, picked up a card, and was thrown in the brig. The other boys laughed. 

“What’d ya do, Spock?” Phil Dale taunted; in his Klingon costume, he looked oddly menacing. “Lead a mutiny? Start a war with the Cardassians? What?”

“Who *haven’t* the Cardassians gone to war with?” Farmer Ted scoffed, reaching for the dice. 

“Good question,” Phil allowed. He leaned back in his seat, studying his toy bat’leth for the umpteenth time. Pretending to eviscerate his enemies with it using the spirit of Kahless. 

“Worse,” Brian commented, smiling sideways. He was beginning to forget how much fun he had with his friends…but some of the things they did together seemed so immature now in the light of day. The D&D sessions. Waiting on line for days on end for a new video game to debut. Checking out the “Star Wars” trilogy for the nth time at the local Cineplex. 

He couldn’t help it. Was he outgrowing the friends he’d had his whole life?

“I p--pissed off some Klingons,” Brian continued, staring at Phil across the table. 

Predictably, he and the rest of the crew “oohed” and leaned back as though slapped. “That’ll do it,” Farmer Ted said, tapping the “To the brig!” square. Brian’s miniature warp core stood inside the “force field”. “You don’t mess with the Klingons, not anymore. We’ve made peace with them. Remember the Khitomer Treaty!” 

“Yeah,” Brian agreed, eyeing Phil’s plastic bat’leth. “W--wouldn’t wanna cross you, *Duckie*.” 

Phil scowled. His forehead wrinkled, and with the addition of the already pitted Klingon headgear, it looks funny. “Shush! You know only Andie calls me that!” 

Larry-slash-Scotty rolled his eyes. “When are you gonna tell her that you’re way into her?”

“He’ll never tell ‘er,” Farmer Ted asserted, reaching for the dice to roll. “Besides, I heard she’s going out with that Blaine guy.” 

Larry furrowed his brow as Farmer Ted landed on Bajor and had to pay Phil 300 bucks. “McDonaugh? The Richie?” 

Ted shrugged as he reluctantly handed over the fake cash. “I guess?” 

“Not as w—weird as you s—seeing Caroline Mulford,” Brian said, looking across at Ted. When they’d showed up to school together, Brian about had a heart attack. Farmer Ted, the notorious Geek formerly obsessed with Samantha Baker, sophomore, who, oddly, was now dating certified “dreamboat” Jake Ryan, was seeing *Caroline Mulford*. One of the hottest girls in school! Jake Ryan’s ex-girlfriend! A former Junior Prom Queen! Holy crap! 

Hell, if they could do it…

Shermer High had been shocked, of course. The ripples through each of Ted’s and Caroline’s respective crowds were large enough to stir tidal waves, knock down buildings. But the two hadn’t seemed to care. They simply kept on, ignoring the whispers. The stares. The endless, endless gossip. The assertion that Ted had something on Caroline. A tape of her doing something naughty, perhaps. And yet, they just kept on keeping on. 

Brian envied them, in a way. If they were at all bothered by the attention their romance accrued, neither Ted nor Caroline showed it. Not publicly. Not to them. They often sat at each other’s lunch tables or visited each other’s houses. Just like they were an average couple with no drama hindering them. 

Jeez. Ted and Caroline. Samantha Baker and Jake Ryan. Andie Walsh and Blane McDonough. 

What was happening at Shermer?

Whatever it was, Brian had no complaints. Maybe this meant that his own Meant To Be was a Princess with a heart of gold in disguise, like Claire?

Though, not exactly Claire. He was pretty sure Bender would kill him if he even entertained the idea. 

Though he was having fun down here with the guys, he kind of wished that he was with the other four members of the Club instead as he normally would be at this time. Laughing. Shooting the shit. 

And he did feel guilty about it. These guys had been his friends since he was in kindergarten! They knew everything about each other. 

But was that still enough? 

Ted merely shrugged. He was uncharacteristically close-lipped regarding his relationship with Caroline. This was the guy who’d “borrowed” Samantha Baker’s underpants to “prove” to his friends that he’d nailed her. Yet, when it came to Caroline, the details about their affair remained under wraps. Brian only knew that they’d met one night at a party or something. There was a Rolls Royce and a church parking lot involved. 

“The way I hear it,” Larry said, shaking the cubic dice in his hands until he let them roll on the gameboard. “Andie Walsh isn’t the one who’s captured Phil Dale’s attention lately.”

Phil ducked his head in a rare blush. The flush looked absurd in his Klingon costume. Klingons didn’t do blushes. Or embarrassment of any kind. “Ah, it’s nothin’,” he mumbled, which meant that it very much was something. 

Brian lifted one bushy blond brow. “And who—who is th—this, Phil?” 

Phil cleared his throat as he rolled the dice. “Her name’s Kristy. Um, we met at Prom. We’re just…taking things slow. You know.” \

“She’s totally hot,” Farmer Ted asserted. He refused to talk about his relationship with Caroline, but he had no qualms discussing others’ romantical liaisons. “She’s a gymnast! And I hear she teaches this self-defense class at the Y after school on Fridays.”” Ted turned askance to regard Phil. “You hit the jackpot, man.” 

Phil bobb3d his shoulders up and down beneath his Klingon General Forces uniform. “She’s not Andie.”

Ted rolled his eyes. “Forget Andie! She’s with that Blane guy anyhow. You can’t be mad at her for it; you never told her how you felt.” 

Brian nodded. “He has a p—point.” 

“See?” 

Phil glowered. “Leave me alone! Whose turn is it?”

Farmer Ted grabbed the dice and rolled. “Mine. Ohh great, I landed on Betazed. I’ll buy it. Sorry, fellas.” 

There were groans of protest all around. Brian’s real ears itched beneath his plastic pointed Spock ears. 

Jeez, he needed to find a real girlfriend quick because even the Nerds were settled and happy now.  
**

Chiicago in July could be fucking humid and muggy and gross. There were two seasons in this part of the country—freezing as balls or hot and nasty. There was rarely any in-between. But John Bender’s wardrobe was a constant—jeans and t-shirts, that was his way. He hated shorts. He had scars on his legs he’d prefer to keep covered, thanks. 

Shit, he had scars on his arms, too. And his back. And his shoulders. But it was so fucking hot tonight, without even a breeze, John just prayed that the little “love bites” his old man had left on his skin weren’t as obvious as he imagined (in his head, there were literal neon signs pointing to each of them) as he shrugged on a Van Halen t-shirt over his usual ripped jeans. 

Then, in order to avoid his father (who’d recently lost yet another job and was in *quite* the lovely mood) and his ma (drunk as a skunk), he climbed out the window and jogged across the lawn to his bike. The fact that he was picking Claire up in it again…he wouldn’t think about that too closely. 

When he knocked on the door, he prepared himself to come face to face with her angry-looking maid again. Or worse, one of her parents. But Claire answered on the first knock, almost as if she were waiting on the other side for his arrival, slid out into the evening in casual jean shorts and an Eiffel Tower tee, biting her lip almost shyly. She was entirely sans makeup other than a possible slick of ChapStick over her amazing lips, which she wore hanging from a lanyard around her neck. She looked just as beautiful without all the frou-frou. 

“Hi,” she said bashfully, leaning against the front door and biting one of those aforementioned amazing lips. “Ready to go?”

She grinned when he merely blinked, then stupidly held aloft a bottle of insect repellent. ‘Can’t be too careful in Chicago in July.’ “I, uh, brought the mosquito stuff…”

‘Stupid. Why the hell are you so stupid around her?! Huh?!’ 

Claire only grinned wider, jogged down the porch, and grasped his arm. “Smart move. Can’t be too careful in the summers here.”

Only exactly what he’d been thinking when he swiped the OFF! at the last minute.

Roosevelt Park in the Everything Else—which had to be near Sporto’s place, now that he thought about it—put on this carnival schtick every year on the fourth. He’d gone as a kid, faithfully every Independence Day, but abruptly stopped when clowns on stilts were introduced as entertainment fodder. John…did not like clowns, ever since he was five and one tried to grab him on the boardwalk. He’d read recently that Stephen King was coming out with an evil clown novel; *that* was one he was planning to skip. 

In any event, tonight was his first time back here since he was ten. Since then, he and Ty—and whoever else wanted in—spent the holiday getting wasted in the woods and setting off firecrackers, thus freaking the hell out of all the dogs in the area. 

The carnival was one of those quick set-up types. Rusty ice cream machines. Rigged game booths. Rides that looked as though they’d been built of popsicle sticks and prayers. But the fireworks the place set over the open-air Ferris Wheel were pretty. 

He paid for the both of them—he could be a gentleman when he chose—and, after pushing through a jacked turnstile, John immediately darted for the game booths. Rigged or not, he was determined to win Cherry something. They had this ring toss game where the tosser hurled a plastic ring into a fish bowl. You win, you get the fish. And the bowl, presumably. 

Lady Luck was not proving on his side tonight. He kept missing the bowls altogether because granted, he wasn’t much with the hand-eye coordination. Claire laughed as he slammed bill after bill atop the badly-painted wooden kiosk. He *did* eventually get it…after spending close to ten bucks. 

Whatever. Claire got her fish. She cooed over it as they ambled toward the rides, paused to purchase snow cones, and declared that she would call it Little John. 

He scowled at that, which only made Claire laugh harder and he couldn’t squash the amused snort in return. At least she was having a good time. 

The Bumper Cars were fun; John loved the Bumper Cars. He slammed into people—and the wall, oops—as hard as he could. He kept ramming into Cherry’s behind because, well, her reaction was hilarious. He only wished that Vernon or Rooney were here. John would love to have an excuse to knock Ol’ Dick’s dick in the dirt. 

Afterwards, a bit unsteady, he bought Queenie a big ass cotton candy—cherry-flavored, naturally. He himself picked up a plate of nachos. Then, at her suggestion, they hit the Ferris Wheel (though he would’ve preferred to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl, just to test how strong his stomach was after all those nachos).

The Bueller Wheel was an open-air ride that went up over one of the park’s manmade lakes. It was all lit up and stuff in red, white, and blue lights for the holiday. The whole evening was *very* American. Carnival-goers walked around brandishing hotdogs and gigantic Cokes, donning American flag apparel (one dude even had the flag shaved into his head—now *that* was either overkill or impressive as hell). Red, white, and blue streamers hung suspended from every ride. Multiple flags waved on flagpoles—the habitual USA one, the flag of the state of Illinois, and one big v-shaped red one proclaiming “Independence Day Carnival!!” in all capitals. Fireworks were set to start soon. The intermingled scents of roasting peanuts and beer hung in the air. 

Claire ran on ahead and claimed one yellow-bucketed cart. The fish in its bag bouncing against her thigh (and probably wondering if there was an earthquake). He humored her and climbed in next to her, silently hoping that none of his buddies were here to see him riding in a fucking open-air Ferris Wheel like a schmo. 

The thing went up with a jolt a few minutes later after people finished filling in the seats. Claire “whoo-ed” like a girl, and they stopped near the top to let on more riders. Sporto would hate this ride; he’d mentioned a fear of heights once. 

The moonlight was doing amazing things to Claire’s skin, though, and up here, her complexion looked twice as luminous. Clear and pale and flawless like ivory. Sleek as solid stone. It made her lips look that much redder, that much juicier. And emphasized the red of her hair, blowing softly in the breeze. It smelled like strawberries. 

Damn, but he was fucking wrecked. 

Following a couple more games—wherein *Claire* won *him* a giant, grinning stuffed shark that he of course named Jaws—he, without thinking about it, took her to his favorite spot in all of Shermer—the place he insisted on going every July 4th at precisely midnight before he and Ty could pick up their drunken woodland games. The old Shermer water tower. 

There was a reason this was the *old* one. Crafted entirely of wood, the ladder steps were rickety as they climbed; the thing looked like it would crumble into dust just by touching it. But John knew from experience that its foundation was strong like bull, despite outward appearances. He never would’ve taken Claire up here otherwise. It had the best view of the fireworks. 

Up here, the wind was even harsher somehow, although the old water tower was lower to the ground than the Ferris Wheel. Claire curled her fists over the wooden balustrade and smiled into the darkness. The breeze pushing back her ginger waves. Enveloping him in a light cloud of strawberry. Her lips somehow looked shiny even without the gloss. 

Fuck. He really wanted to kiss those lips. Quite a bit. 

John fidgeted, his pants suddenly feeling a wee bit too tight. Damn this external genitalia! 

“It’s so pretty up here,” she breathed, inhaling deeply. She scrunched up her nose at all the roasted peanuts and weenies and beer on the air. Like a squirrel.

It was kind of adorable. And that word would remain solely in his head. 

“Yeah, real pretty,” he agreed in a stupid stammer, looking at her in a totally clichéd rom-com moment. Christ, he could’ve kicked himself. He should’ve worn his steel-toed boots instead of these Chucks. 

Claire extended an arm out towards the lake, which reflected the Bueller Wheel and they were a good few yards from. “The lake is so *calm* tonight even though it’s windy. Huh.”

John felt his trademark smartass smirk returning. ‘Oh, there you are, bud.’ “Yeah. Science for ya. A lot of ‘huh’.” 

Claire grinned and lightly bumped against his bicep. She was almost as tall as he was. In the past, he’d always been drawn to the fun-size types; it was strange being with a girl who could nearly match him in size. 

Strange and rad. 

“Like you’d know,” Claire snarked. “Criminal.” 

“I’ll have you know that I’ve attended at least five science classes in the last semester!” John paused, silently counting on his fingers, then nodded. “Yeah, five sounds about right.” 

Claire guffawed. The tips of her fingers, he noticed, were lightly stained the red dye from the cotton candy. ‘Bet they taste like cherries—oh, you’re a fucking pervert.’

He was *not* going to suck Claire’s fingers tonight. That was not what tonight was about. 

Unless she wanted him to, obviously. He wasn’t a madman. 

“Ooh,” she mocked, wiggling those red-tipped fingers. “I bet Mr. Anderson really appreciated you in his class.”

“I actually had Rogan. I think.” His name *was* Rogan, right? 

He’d have to check his old schedule. That useless piece of crap. 

“I’m surprised you remember.”

John shrugged. “Hell, so am I.”

Claire laughed some more and turned to stare out into the vast blackness again. Silently, he watched her, admiring the column of her neck, the curve of her hip, her legs in those short shorts. But he also noticed how her eyes sparkled even in the darkness. How she bit her bottom lip when she was thinking or confused. How pretty her hands were, all elegant and long-fingered and shit. 

John Bender couldn’t believe that he was preoccupied with a chick’s *hands*. 

And then, the hour struck midnight, and the fireworks commenced. Sparks of not just red, white, and blue, but also every other color in the rainbow. Green. Orange. Yellow. Purple. Shooting toward the heavens and lighting up the sky. 

John would swear he was compelled that night. Whatever it was, there was *something* more in the air than merely the lovely fireworks and the scents of the carnival and even her strawberry shampoo. He practically *needed* to kiss her; it was vital at that precise moment as the fireworks were exploding behind the evergreen trees in the distance and the Ferris Wheel closer toward them. 

When he gently grabbed her chin and descended his lips upon hers, that was when he knew or sure.

John “Criminal” Bender was damn crazy about Claire “Princess” Standish. 

**  
The Boss Bar & Grille was named in honor of Bruce “The Boss” Springsteen. The place played his music and only his music. Except on Fridays. Fridays were reserved for local bands to strut their stuff, so to speak. And Bender’s band, Tricky Dick Vernon, was playing tonight. 

Andy snorted in amusement as he checked out his reflection in the mirror for the umpteenth time. He ultimately decided to look as “The Boss” as possible in belted lightwash blue jeans, his usual sneakers, and a white tank top that proclaimed that he was Born in the U.S.A. After all, the fourth had just passed, hadn’t it? And he was forever being told that he had that “All-American look”. 

Andy ultimately gave up on trying to tame the cowlicks at the back of his head, shrugged, and went to pick up Allison. She, too, had taken the Boss theme to heart, wearing an outfit almost identical to his. They took one look at each other and laughed. 

It felt good to laugh with Ally again, he considered whilst he led the Bronco through the winding development. Ever since the awkward dinner with her parents and Eleanor, Allison had never missed an opportunity to express her apologies. He kept assuring her, of course, that everything was copacetic, and, like, the evening with her folks hadn’t turned him away or anything but Ally was determined to make it up to him. Whatever that meant, he had no complaints. 

That night *had* been weird, though. Even after Eleanor sped off in her rental Corvette. Joseph Reynolds frequently glared at him in that pompous rich guy manner he had perfected, somehow declaring for all the world that he thought one Andrew Clark to be beneath him and his family. And Lenore Reynolds—well, when she got drunk, she got catty. Outwardly catty, anyway. She spat vicious gossip about her fellow Richie neighbors, like that Joan Lawton was a “hussy” who was openly having an affair with her gardener and Edward Spillane was going through a secret, if nasty, divorce from his ex-wife, Diane. And she, in turn, had left him for his brother. 

It was all *way* over Andy’s head and above his paygrade. He didn’t give one iota about any of the people she mentioned, hadn’t even heard of most, but that wouldn’t stop her from sloshing her drink everywhere and cackling like Cruella de Vil. 

At the end of the night, Joseph shook his hand, but Andy was no fool; it was an undoubtedly cold handshake. A “I hope I never ever see you darken my doorstep again” kind of handshake. A “go back to your own people” handshake. Andrew had left feeling bewildered and depressed. 

Allison had called him as soon as he got home and apologized profusely “on behalf of the elitist turds who raised me”. And she’d continued to offer apologies, often in the form of her being totally uncharacteristically over-affectionate in public. Andy certainly wouldn’t have minded *that*….if he knew she just wasn’t trying to overcompensate for something that was completely not her fault in the first place. 

He glanced askance at his girlfriend, who was lounging in the passenger’s seat lip-syncing along to “Born to Run”. “You ready for this?”

Ally smirked mid-lyric. “To watch Bender make a fool of himself? I can’t wait!”

Andy chuckled and turned up the music. Bender had casually dropped that he and his bandmates had a gig this Friday as they slurped root beer floats at Peggy Sue’s. Andy hadn’t even known that the dude *had* a band. Or was in a band. Or whatever. He also mentioned the location and time but it all was totally chill and he didn’t expect them to be there or anything. 

He obviously very much expected them to be there. Claire, at the least. 

Speaking of Claire, she spent the whole time at Peggy Sue’s the other day looking uncharacteristically bubbly. Even giddy. Claire Standish wasn’t *giddy*. Cold. Icy. Unapproachable. When you broke through the initial Ice Princess exterior, she could be warm and funny. But *giddy*? Never. 

She wasn’t perky, either. It was why she had quit the squad; she'd made an awful cheerleader. 

She also spent a lot of time smiling at Bender’s stupid antics. Undoubtedly, her atypical behavior had something to do with the burnout. 

Whatever. Not his business. If they wanted to suck face all over town, no skin off his ass. As long as it wasn’t in his backyard or anything. Gross. 

The club, situated in a row of “good-time facilities” Bender called Shermer’s Red Light District, was smoky and dull-lighted. The scent of frying fish permeated. In a corner, a deejay in a half-hearted Boss costume spun Springsteen tunes. “Thunder Road” blared out from speakers placed on either side of a foot-high stage. Patrons were either eating or drinking margaritas or cuddling in booths. 

Andy claimed an open table in the corner. Allison sat down and immediately ordered a margarita from their waitress; she nodded without asking to see any I.D. and sat a basket of dry Tostitos and salsa in the middle of the tabletop before departing. 

Andy wished he’d had the guts to order a beer. 

“I’ve been to this place before,” Ally said when Andy regarded her with a raised eyebrow. “I know they don’t card or ask for identification of any kind. Most of the joints here don’t.”

“’Joints’?” he questioned dubiously. Damn, she was starting to sound like a 1940s-era P.I. It was kinda hot. “Where *else* have you been here?” he continued, recollecting the pool hall across the street. 

Allison grinned and popped a Tostito. “Oh, I come and go…” 

That did not answer his question in the least, but he was used to Ally’s mysterious evasiveness by now. Andy chuckled and reached for a Tostito. 

Brian arrived a moment later looking a bit harried. “Sorry,” he panted as he sat in one of the high-rise chairs at their table. “Had to do some errands for my mom…” 

Allison chewed on the end of another Tostito, then thanked the waitress when she brought her the sweating green frozen margarita. 

Andy’s conscience said “Screw it” and he ordered a Bud. The waitress agreed without batting an eye.

“What kind of errands?” Ally asked, sipping her frozen ‘rita with relish. 

Brian rolled his watery blue eyes. “Basically dragging Mary everywhere. She’s in a d--dozen ex--extracurricular activities that don’t stop just because it’s summer. Dance. Rec. soccer. Something called ‘Photographic Jogging’.” 

Andy smiled up at the waitress when she brought him his bottle of Bud. “…does that entail jogging *while* taking a picture or someone *else* taking your picture while you jog?” 

The Brain shrugged. “No idea. Mary won’t tell me. All I know is that she loves it.” 

Claire arrived last, looking very “of the moment” in an off-shoulder pink sweatshirt, gray leggings, and lots of bangles. Her mouth was smeared in electric pink lipstick. In her lobes bobbed a pair of those dangly earrings girls seemed to like. Why, Andy had no idea. They looked like Christmas ornaments to him. 

“Sorry I’m late,” the Princess said once she sat down. “I didn’t know what to wear.”

Ally blew her bangs of her face. “The quandary of the century. What to wear to my boyfriend’s band gig.”

Claire scowled at her. “He’s *not* my boyfriend. He’s just…” 

Andy snickered. “He is definitely ‘just’.” 

Brian concurred. “Very ‘just’.”

Claire hurled a balled-up cocktail napkin in their direction. It landed somewhere between the both of them. “…shut up.” 

As one, Andy, Brian, and Allison cackled. Claire shook her head, but the corners of her lips were upturned. 

‘Ah, the plot thickens…’ 

A few minutes later, the already dim lighting dropped even more, and some guy in a black The Boss Bar & Grille t-shirt, which featured a truck because “grille”, Andy supposed, appeared on the stage in a hazy ball of spotlight. “Dude. Up the wattage a bit,” he barked to the unseen spotlight guy in the rafters. “That’s better. Anyway, what’s up, everyone! Welcome to The Boss Bar & Grille! Tonight, as you know, is Local Bands Night, so instead of just Springsteen music, there will be bands performing their own stuff. First up is a group from Northridge. Give it up for The Exits!” 

The audience clapped appropriately. Andy found himself bobbing along to the music. These ‘The Exits’ weren’t half bad. Their original stuff was kind of gooey, but when they covered some Boss tunes, they were pretty on. Even if the lead singer kept shouting into the mic; that was unnecessary. 

The next band, who called themselves “Maximum Velocity”, were pretty damn bad. They merely covered a lot of Led Zeppelin tunes and often forgot their own original lyrics. The audience booed them off the stage. 

They had to sit through crappy garage band after crappy garage band—a trying too hard death metal band, a way too old adult contemporary band, a flute jazz band. Most of them sucked and weren’t worth the polite golf claps. Until finally, Bender’s group was announced at the closing of the showing. 

The t-shirt guy appeared in the middle of the stage again, surrounded by light, and read from an index card in his palm. “Last band of the night, folks. Jeez, you’re all hard to please! Perhaps, you’ll like these guys better. Give it up for—“ He glanced down at the index card in his hand. “—Tricky Dick Vernon? Heh. I went to Shermer High, too. Good to know that the guy’s still ridiculous.”

“Way ridiculous!” called a voice offstage that sounded a lot like Bender. 

The audience tittered. 

They took the stage. Each member was dressed in a Vernon-esque leisure suit. Ty Carter’s was orange. Elias Jones’ was electric blue. Ash Langley’s was red. Gavin Treadmore’s was black. And the lead singer, Andy thought her name was Isabelle but couldn’t be sure, wore a skirt version of a leisure suit in pink. Bender’s on the air guitar was gray.

Ty Carter sat behind a set of drums. Gavin Treadmore claimed another guitar on Bender’s opposite side. Ash Langley was on the keyboard for some reason. And Elias Jones…he thought the guy was playing the violin tonight. 

Isabelle Jones, his sister, wavered behind an elongated microphone. 

They instantly started in with an original song—one called “Crackin’ Skulls”. Andy couldn’t help but chortle. Especially at the lyric “I’m crackin’, I’m crackin’ skulls, if I have to come back in here. Crackin’ skulls, don’t make me bring out the brahma bull, m’dear. I’m crackin’, I’m crackin’ fucking skulls.”

The audience, comprised mainly of Shermer High students, erupted in laughter and whooped, on their feet as the song sampled Vernon’s actual words (which he assuredly hadn’t had prior knowledge or approval of). The next offering was still a rock song—Bender’s band wouldn’t entertain anything else—but more on the slower side. Called “Don’t You Forget About Me”, the lead singer attributed the writing to Bender, who, in her words, “had gone fucking soft”. The Grille patrons tittered, but the song was good. Kind of British New Wave meets Alt-Rock. 

Claire was going buckwild, it appeared. Swaying on her feet. Whoo-ing as only a girl could. Even at one point producing a cheap plastic lighter and waving it back and forth. 

“This is great!” she yelled over the cacophony of her totally not boyfriend’s music. 

Allison plucked another Tostito from the din. “I know *you* think so.” 

“Oh, come on!” She gestured widely toward the stage. “They are easily the best band featured tonight.” 

Ally looked pensive. Thoughtful. “I don’t know,” she hedged, sipping her margarita through a crazy straw. “I kinda liked that flute jazz band. They had a piccolo player! Who the hell can play the piccolo?” 

Brian’s shoulders bobbed beneath the oatmeal-colored sweater he wore and also sipped his Coke through a crazy straw. “Don’t know. Maybe Robin Hood and his Merry Men?”

When they finished their set, Claire pulled Bender into the bathroom of the smoky club. Andy rolled his eyes and knocked back his beer. ‘Gee, wonder what they’re doing in there.’

Afterwards, at Andy’s house (the boys were sleeping over, mostly because Bender’s old man had recently lost his job and was incidentally on the warpath; dude needed a place to crash until the hellfire tidal wave simmered), Andy threw Bender and Brian some of his clothes to sleep in and tried to ignore the former laughing at his Batman pajamas. “Man, I didn’t even know you had a band.”

Bender shrugged. He was still donning the gray leisure suit. It looked absurd on him. Hell, it looked absurd on Vernon. Probably everyone. “We don’t play often. It’s not like we’re hoping to get a recording contract or anything.”

Brian crossed his legs Indian-style. “So, i—it’s just for fun?”

Another shrug. “I guess. But we knew we wanted to honor Dick with it.”

Andy snorted. “I’m sure he’d be pleased. Flattered, even.” He allowed a slow Grinch-like smirk to cross his face. “Claire seemed to like it.”

“…shut up,” Bender groused, unknowingly repeating her own response from earlier. He unfolded the sleep shirt in his grasp. “The fuck, Sporto? You gave me a Shermer High Wrestling shirt to sleep in?”

Andy raised his arms sheepishly. “It was either that or my old Big Bird sweatshirt.” 

Bender hesitated, then nodded from side to side. “I’ll take this one. For now. Just this once. *I’m* not the one who enjoys wearing tights and rolling around on the floor with other guys.”

Andy merely glowered and flipped him off. 

Bender laughed and went to go change. Once he was gone, the Sport asked the Brain what he’d told his mom about tonight. Because it certainly wouldn’t have been the truth. 

“I told her I was staying over Larry’s,” Brian admitted, a mite bashful. “Th—then I told L—Larry that I had a d—date and to—and to please cover for me if my m—mom c—called.”

Poor Brian. His stutter grew evidently worse when the conversation referenced his mother. Mrs. Johnson had to be some kind of woman, that was for sure. 

Brian gulped and continued. “D—do you have s—somewhere I can brush—brush my teeth? Teeth health is imp—important, you know. I, um, have—have my own toothbrush.”

Naturally, the Brainiac would carry around an extra toothbrush. Andy gestured to the lone bathroom in the hallway, the one that wasn’t attached to his own room; Bender was in that one, likely cringing at having to wear a Shermer High Wrestling t-shirt to bed. “There’s one out in the hallway, but good luck battling my brothers for it.” 

Brian cringed and, clutching the pajamas to his chest, walked toward the bedroom door. “S—siblings.” 

When he returned he looked like he had just gone to war. Hair all askew. Mouth set in a permanent cringe. Complexion flushed. Fingers shaking. “Y—your brothers are som—something else.” 

“That’s one way to describe ‘em.” 

Bender had returned from the en suite. “I like that Kyle kid. He appreciates a good prank.” 

Andy considered the whoopee cushion prank he had pulled on him at dinner earlier and scowled. He’d never live it down. 

Bender slammed his fist into the pillow leaning up against Andy’s plastic bed stand. “Thanks, uh, for lettin’ me crash, Sporto.” 

“As long as you don’t mind sleeping on the floor.” He figured a guy like Bender to fall into Dreamland anywhere. 

He scoffed. “I’d sleep on a bed of nails to get away from the old man so the floor is fine, Sporto. As long as you don’t roll around on the floor with other guys on it.”

Andy rolled his eyes “Fuck you.”

Bender, naturally, didn’t miss a beat. “Nah, not into that. But you do you, Tights.”

Brian laughed just as Kyle poked his head into the room and snickered. “Are you guys having a three way?” 

Jack quickly followed, singing, “Three way, three way!”

Andy told them both to kiss his ass and shut the door on his cackling little brothers. Bender guffawed. “Like I said. I like that kid.”  
**

Meanwhile, at the palatial Standish estate, the girls were having their own sleep-in. However, it was nearly one A.M., and Claire was still in the process of making Allison over. Again. 

“I didn’t have all my tools last time,” she’d explained as her fingers automatically began to comb through Allison’s thick mass of dark hair. “I had to make do with what I had. All that wrinkled crap in your huge bag, Allison.” 

Ally had rolled her eyes in annoyance but allowed the Princess to do as she wished. Unlike last time, though, her complacency wasn’t due to mere gratefulness that she now actually had another female to talk to but gratitude that Claire was letting her stay the whole weekend in her massive bedroom (she’d sleep on the supposedly period Victorian-era chaise lounge). Claire’s parents, Richard and Nora Standish, were forever jet-setting and rarely home, and her older brother, Josh, had his own apartment. Thus, Claire had the run of the place more often than not, with only her faithful housekeeper, Greta, and their private chef, Francesco, to watch over her. She rarely even had to ask if her friends could spend the night(s). 

Any excuse to get away from Lenore and Joseph worked for Allison. Eleanor had flown back to California early after the blowup at the unexpected and disastrous meet-the-folks dinner, so Allison couldn’t stay with her at her hotel room in the Holiday Inn, where she routinely stayed when she visited (El would prefer to *not* use her old bedroom on Lenore’s turf, and Ally couldn’t blame her one bit). When Claire had suggested that Allison spend the weekend at her place after Bender’s band’s gig, she nearly did a jig in relief. 

So, because of this arbitrary act of un-Claireness, Allison let her do as she wished. If that meant a spontaneous one A.M. makeover, then so be it. 

“I’m gonna fix your hair into a high pony,” Claire said, flipping on the brand new Sony stereo her father had brought her from Tokyo. The dulcet tones of Wham! flooded the room.

Allison was facing away from Claire’s antique vanity. “What’s the point if I’m just going to mess it up when Io to sleep?”

Claire paused and folded her hands on her hips. “Don’t you throw logic at me!”

Allison shook her head and threw up her hands in exasperation. “Fine. Ponytail me.” 

Claire beamed and did just that, rifling her manicured hands through Allison’s bush of hair and tying it in a high knot at the top of her skull. So tight that it gave her a slight headache. That done, the Princess went to town on her makeup-wise. Some of the shades she used terrified Allison. Purple eye shadow and nearly red rouge and hot pink lipstick and something Claire called “luster dust” in sparkly silver. 

When she was finished, she was spun around with a triumphant “Ta-da!” Allison frowned at her reflection. She totally did not look like herself at all. Unlike before, this makeover hadn’t been about removing Allison’s layers but making her into some sort of cover model glamour girl. 

She looked like Madonna. Or Yasmine Bleeth on the cover of “Sports Illustrated”. 

“Claire! I look ridiculous,” Allison complained, still staring at her absurd reflection. 

“You do not!” the Princess denied, crossing her arms. “You look…you look like her!”

Claire held up a copy of “Seventeen” featuring model Jennifer Connolly on the front. She was all made up to look like an of the moment Glamazon. Definitely unlike herself; Allison had seen the girl in episodes of “Hill Street Blues” before. 

Allison grabbed for the copy. “Yeah, right And I’m Tony Danza.” 

Claire shrugged. “I can probably make you look like Tony Danza if you want. I’d have to cut your hair, though.”

Allison kind of hated herself for her instant, base reaction to that. She covered her head with both arms, over the way too tight pony, and squeaked. “No thanks.” The idea of shaving off her hair, even to a girl like Allison, made her want to run and hide. 

Claire laughed and switched on the TV. A new episode of “Dynasty” was on, but the Princess switched the channel to 3 and fed a tape into the brand spanking new Zenith VCR—a real beauty. Her parents were very capable of buying Allison these trinkets but didn’t, and Allison herself spent most of her money on art supplies. Money she worked for, much to her mother’s detriment, doing odd jobs like babysitting (the last two she sat for was a boy who was a bit too old to be babysat and his little sister who wouldn’t take off her horned Thor helmet) and mowing lawns in the neighborhood, also much to her mother’s mortification. “My daughters do not mow lawns!”

Allison sighed, glanced at her insane reflection one more time, then went to join the Princess, sinking down to her butt on the carpet beside her, her knees to her chest. Claire had decided that they were watching “Flashdance”, which had just come out on video. Ally wouldn’t admit it, but she secretly liked that movie. 

Claire scooted closer to her as the film began and passed her a box of Whoppers she’d retrieved from the small fridge in her room. Allison took it gratefully’ all she’d had for dinner were those Tostitos, she was starving. 

As “What A Feeling” blared out over the surround sound and Claire squealed in delight, Allison hid a smile in her chest.

So *this* was what having friends felt like.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: I may have messed up the "Star Trek: TOS" lore by mixing in aliens and planets that weren't mentioned in the first series. Oops. It's been awhile since I've seen TOS (I used to watch it as a kid on Nick at Nite) but I'm bingeing all the spinoffs now, I'm on DS9 lol so I may have confused things. Sorry to any Trek fans. 
> 
> Note 2: I was NOT on #TeamDuckie. Sorry not sorry xD I thought he was a Nice Guy. You know, he never tells Andie how he feels but still gets pissed at her for dating Blaine. And when I read that book about the making of those Gen X movies, the director, Howard Deutch (actress Zoey Deutch's father and Lea Thompson's husband; they met on the set of Some Kind of Wonderful) says of the alternate ending where she ends up with Duckie for some reason "Duckie deserved her but we don't always get what we should." ...How? How does he :"deserve" her? For lip syncing "Try A Little Tenderness" in her record shop and going to the prom with her in that horrid dress? Screw that noise. 
> 
> Note 3: Kristy Swanson, the original Buffy! Of course she would teach self-defense.
> 
> Note 4: Skip "IT" indeed John, if you have clown fear. I do not and it still gave me nightmares.
> 
> Note 5: The Boss was a real night club in the 80s that only played Springsteen music. Rob Lowe was said to be a big fan during his Brat Pack heydey. 
> 
> Note 6: I got The Exits from Boy Meets World lols. Cory et. al, form a band for one episode called The Exits, inspired by an exit sign. Man, I loved that show as a kid. Still love it. Topanga is #hairgoals.
> 
> Note 7: Ally Sheedy was a regular on Hill Street Blues before her own Brat Pack heyday.
> 
> Note 8: Adventures in Babysitting ref! This would've been a few years before the movie cameo out, so both Brad and Sarah were younger. Still wore the hat, though.
> 
> Note 9: Chapter explanation--Bender is "another one who bites the dust" as he's falling for Claire.


	15. Chapter 10: The Best Little Mallhouse in Shermer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! This one is about fifteen pages. I hope you like it cus it took FOREVER to format.

Chapter 10: The Best Little Mallhouse in Shermer

**  
John’s best bud since they were nine, Tyson Carter, was a certified video game geek. Not only did he have a really cool Atari that he’d spend hours in front of, he also made it a habit to check out the latest games available at the arcade. And the comparably small one in the Red Light District was not good enough for Ty, video game connoisseur as he was. That meant that he and John had to drive across fucking town to the big arcade in the Shermer Hills Mall. 

Shit, did John hate it here. A mall was a mall, of course, but this one, being situated smack dab in the middle of Richieville, boasted a lot of high-end…everything. That had been the selling point when the executives or whatever behind the place conceived of it and henceforth pulled out all the stops to sell it to Shermer—glossy, high-end buying inside a glossy, high-end structure. No cheap linoleum and faulty escalators for Shermer Hills, nope. Here, this “shopping experience”, as it was originally billed, was all angles and glass and shamrock-shaped fountains. It incidentally drew lots of Rodeo Drive-esque stores. Versace, Ralph Lauren, Max Azria. Fucking Cartier’s and Prada. 

He was kind of surprised he didn’t get instantly arrested just by walking past these joints. Alas, he had to—the arcade was on the first floor and right in the middle of everything. 

The Shermer elite of Richieville never seemed particularly approving of his presence here, but, unfortunately for them, Shermer Hills was a *public* mall. As in, everyone was welcome. So to speak. 

John sneered and flashed the devil horns at a lady with too puffy frosted hair dragging a passel of kids around after her who kept glaring at him and Ty. As though they would break out the ski masks and start robbing the place any second. The lady huffed loudly, grabbed the hand of her oldest kid, and marched away with an offended “Well, I’ve *never*!” 

Ty chuckled as they rounded the corner into the arcade. The crazy lighting in here gave him a sort of reddish hue. “You’re gonna get our asses thrown out, man.” 

John shrugged. “Then, I’ll be giving her what she wants, anyway. Unless you plan to hold a store up. I suggest Cartier. Lots of baubles that I’m sure are worth a fortune on the Black Market.” 

Ty shook his head and fed a coin into the machine for Pac-Man. He loved Pac-Man. “Don’t plan on it, but thanks for the suggestion.” 

Again, John’s shoulders bobbed. “Your loss. I hate this place.” 

“I know you do.”

John rolled his eyes. “Then, why do you drag me here every time a new video game debuts? We could just hit the arcade near us.”

Ty did not move his gaze from the arcade game. “Because they don’t get the latest shit. Not as fast as this one does. Just put your big boy pants on and deal with it.” 

John grumbled that he *was* wearing his big boy pants, thank you very much. Ty cackled, again without glancing away from the screen, and fed another quarter into the game when his Pac-Man was killed by a ghost. 

“Damnit!” he cried when it happened again. John laughed as Ty punched the arcade game and moved down a few paces to inspect the newest addition—some kind of punch-out game. 

“You’re never gonna get past that level, Ty, might as well give up tryin’.”

“Screw you,” Ty muttered, feeding a quarter in the slot of the newest game. 

John laughed some more and crossed to play some Kong. 

Once they both died in their respective games—and were out of spare lives—they threw up their hands in frustration and surrender. John sure as hell wasn’t about to blow all his ducats on arcade games; he kind of needed cash these days. ‘Maybe I should think about getting a job.’ A real job. Not one where he dressed up as a giant hamburger and trod up and down the road handing out fliers. 

“Soooo,” Ty drawled as he tried his best to obliterate 8-bit aliens in a new edition of Space Invaders. “Where’ve you been lately?”

John pretended he had no idea what his buddy was talking about even though he very much did. He did not glance away from Duckhunt. “What do you mean?”

Tinny music played when the aliens successfully invaded. Ty stepped back from the arcade game and glared at Bender beside him. “Don’t give me that. You’ve been more wishy-washy than usual lately.”

Bender crossed his arms angrily over his chest after that frigging dog appeared to taunt him. ‘Stupid dog.’ “I am not wishy-washy!”

Ty rolled his eyes. “Yes, you are, but I’ll let it slide for now. Where’ve you been disappearin’ to? And don’t tell me it’s about your old man because I know your habits.”

Only Ty could get away with mentioning his father so cavalierly. “Ah, it’s nothin’,” John mumbled, knowing how full of shit he was.

“Again, don’t give me that,” his friend laughed. “Your ears are turnin’ red.” 

“I swear, it’s nothing—“ 

“Now, I got three theories,” Ty continued as though John hadn’t interrupted at all. He counted his “theories” off on his fingers. Both amused and irate, John leaned back against the arcade game with a small smirk on his ace. “Numero uno, you got a new job. Since you would’ve been bragging about it instead of trying to hide it, I doubt this one unless it’s something extremely embarrassing. Like you’re Carl the janitor’s assistant or something.”

‘Ah, maybe it’ll be fun to watch him try to guess.’ Wordlessly, John shook his head. 

“Didn’t think so,” Ty continued. “Okay, option B—you have a new hookup. And she must be *dayum* for you to be this distracted.”

That was dangerously close. But, sadly for Bender, not close enough. He had an inkling that being with Claire would be along the *dayum* lines, as every time he kissed her, he felt this pleasant, thrilling electric shock, but he wouldn’t get lost in fantasy. Not right now, anyway. 

John minutely shook his head. 

“All right,” Ty laughed. “Number tres—now this one I can barely believe because of your ‘credo’ and shit.”

‘My credo?’ He had a credo?

“You’re seeing someone,” his buddy finished, and John felt all the blood drain from his face. Felt his eyes bug out like, well, a bug’s. Felt his stomach start churning. Ty immediately picked up on his friend’s abrupt change in demeanor and guffawed in surprise. “Holy shit! You *are* seeing someone! What the hell happened to ‘Commitment is evil’?” 

John glared in warning. “Ty…” 

“So, come on, who is it?” he entreated, ignoring said warning. John’s menacing glowers did absolutely not affect Ty. “Wait, wait. Let me guess. It’s Holly, right?”

Lips thinning, John shook his head. 

“It’s not?! Damn, she’s gonna be pissed,” Ty chuckled. “Okay, so who, then? One of the other girls? Ashley? Kim? Suzanne?” 

John pushed his hair out of his face. He felt like a trapped wild animal. Growing increasingly desperate with each passing second whilst the poachers surrounded him with weapons. For all his bravado, John did not like stepping outside his Comfort Zone. And this was assuredly outside that Comfort Zone. “..it—it’s none of those…” 

Ty lifted a dark brow. “Ah, you admit it. There *is* a girl.” 

‘Damnit!’ If there was one person who was adept at getting information out of him, it was his best friend. Always had been that way. John didn’t know how he did it. “…I didn’t say that…” 

Another laugh. “Yes, you did! All right, all right, who is she? Come on, give up the goods.” 

John hesitated. His whole body was beginning to itch. He had a cramp in his shoulder. Tension was crawling up his back. Anxious, he twittered back and forth in his boots. Back and forth. He’d known, at some point, that he’d have to tell Ty at the very least about what was going on with Claire, but he hadn’t exactly known how to broach the topic. ‘I may be kinda-sorta dating the girl who once called you a nerd in front of the whole cafeteria’? That…would not go over well. 

And using the word “dating” made John’s stomach clench in revolt. They *weren’t* dating!

…were they?

Bender twitched in his boots. This was not how he had planned to tell Ty. Shit, he hadn’t really *had* a plan to tell Ty. He didn’t even know if there was something *to* tell. 

That was bullshit and he knew it. There was definitely something to tell. And John had engaged in his fair share of locker room talk in the past. More than his fair share. But, with Claire…that part of their…whatever…as miniscule as it was at current—he hadn’t even gotten past second base yet—he wanted to keep between themselves. It was nobody else’s business. 

Although, he’d never had a problem kissing and telling before. 

But this was *Claire*. 

John gazed down at the scuffed toes of his boots and mumbled, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

*That* garnered Ty’s full attention. Turning away from a new arcade game, he crossed his arms over his gray Pac-Man t-shirt and narrowed his eyes. “Okay, now I must know.” 

Hesitating for only a second, John sighed and reached for his crappy plastic wallet. Ty laughed and crowed “I knew it was one of your Wallet Girls!” as John thumbed through picture after picture after damn picture. Shit, he had a lot of women in here. No wonder Claire had been so preoccupied with the contents of his wallet back in detention. 

In her words, “John, your wallet is like a Rolodex of girls.” 

She wasn’t wrong. 

Finally, he found what he was looking for and pulled the strand out of its confines. Black and white miniature pictures taken in one of those photobooths. Claire had dragged him into one after he nearly killed himself riding the Bumper Cars. 

A mite reluctant, worried about what his friend would say—Ty was one of the few people in the world whose opinion John courted—he handed over the string of photographs. One featured he and Claire simply smiling. Another had her giving him bunny ears—she’d pay for that. And they were kissing in the last. 

Ty grasped the string of pictures with a chuckle…which then died a quick death once he gazed upon them. Eyes bulging like he was a fucking fly, he gawked at John as if he’d never seen him before. “Claire *Standish*?! Holy hell!”

Bender grit his teeth. “Jesus! Be a little *louder* next time. I don’t think they heard you in Canada!”

Ty ignored him. “Claire Standish, good God, man! How the hell did *that* happen?!”

John was gazing down at his boots again. “Met her in detention…”

“Which one?”

“Back in March.” A glower. “The one I got after you knuckleheads made me pull the fire alarm then ran like hell when Dick turned the corner.”

But Ty Carter wasn’t a penitent person. He only threw back his head and guffawed. “We did you a favor, apparently. That’s where you met your pampered princess lady love.”

John grabbed for the pictures, but Ty held them out of his reach above his head. Then, lowering his arm, he once again gazed at the contents and whistled. “Damn, Claire frigging Standish. You’re right. I never would’ve believed it, but the proof is right the hell here. And this has been goin’ on since *March* and you never said anything?! Who the hell are you?”

John wanted to disappear into the brightly colored carpet of the arcade. Instead, he fingered a pool cube someone had left out atop the table near him. “I guess…” 

Had he been too “easy” with the slip of the tongues in the past? Bragging about all he’d done with a chick in order to make himself look better? 

It was a humbling notion. 

Ty was still gawking at him as though he’d just grown another head. Angrily sighing, John raked a hand through his hair and successfully snatched back the photos. He carefully replaced them in his wallet. “We’re tryin’ to keep…this…on the down low. So…keep your trap *shut*!”

His friend chortled. “All right, all right. I won’t say anything. Just tell me one thing—you doin’ her or what?”

That had John seeing red. Generally, he’d crow “Hell yeah!” and slap his buddy five. But now, with Claire…that just didn’t feel right. Sure, he’d made out with her. In lots of different places. Copped a feel or two. However, it hadn’t gone further than that and lying about what he’d done with her so far tasted all sorts of *wrong* to him. 

In the past, John had had no qualms about adding an exaggeration here or there. To make himself look the stud. What was the harm? It’d never get back to the girl in question. Right? 

Wrong. One time, he’d boasted about going all the way with Sarah Crawford. He, uh, had not. At the most, he’d rounded third with her, that was fun. What was not fun was Sarah’s reaction when she found out that he’d lied about their…encounter. 

It hadn’t bothered him before, her being that upset, but now, picturing Claire in Sarah’s place…

John suddenly felt a bit sick.

Ty continued to stare at him in blatant amusement. “You know her daddy, like, owns Chicago, right? She’s not just *a* Richie, she’s *the* Richie.”

John rolled his eyes. *Everyone* knew that. Everyone in the frigging Midwest knew who the Standishes were. “Yes, Ty, I know that.” It was kind of hard to miss Richard Standish’s grinning mug everywhere. On highway billboards. Painted on benches. Tacked up on telephone poles. 

Ty shook his head. “I gotta ask, man. How do you know she ain’t using you? Slumming or trying to get back at Daddy or…whatever.” 

The very idea he himself had put in her head. Yet…he didn’t think that was what was happening here. Call it a hunch. Or maybe he was just being incredibly naïve. He had heavily dissected both possibilities. 

John’s lips thinned. “I know, Ty. Believe me, I’ve thought long and hard about just that. And…I don’t think that’s what’s goin’ on. I really don’t.”

Ty merely nodded, accepting the reply. “Well, I hope you’re right. That’s all I’m saying. Dang, Claire mother-fucking Standish. You remember she called me a nerd in front of the entire caf once?”

John cringed but nodded. “…yeah. She’s…different…now.” Or trying to be, anyway. 

“I hope you’re right, man. I really do. For your sake. Let’s go see a movie. The new Jason is out.” 

John nodded and silently walked beside his friend. Hoping very much that he was right, too.

**  
Brian was decidedly *not* having a good time.

Ted’s inexplicable girlfriend, Caroline Mulford, had set him up with one of her friends on a blind date. On and on, the blonde gushed about her friend, insisting that she and Brian had a lot in common. And it seemed to be the truth, as far as he was concerned. They were both into sci-fi—she had the entire original “Twilight Zone” on VHS and was stoked for the retread on CBS coming up—both had fathers who were cardiologists, both had braces. The difference there was, this “Aimee” was so rich, instead of the usual rubber and plastic, her fill-ins were literal diamonds. Brian had to squint whenever she smiled. Which was often. 

The date, originally at Antonio’s, had started out all right. Brian was intrigued that she seemed to like science fiction and began talking about “Star Trek” and “Star Wars” at length. Alas, Aimee had never seen either; she just liked anthologies. So, he tried to steer the conversation toward the “Twilight Zone”, but she couldn’t seem to recall some key episodes. 

Humph. Brian was not amused. Aimee had no recollection of “The Obsolete Man” and had never even heard of “Death’s Head Revisited”! What kind of “TZ” fan had never seen “Death’s Head Revisited”?!

Brian thought to end the date early, but didn’t want to insult Caroline or anything. So, there he sat with this “I’m a total nerd!” popular girl with diamonds in her braces very carefully eating around a slice of pepperoni pizza—his orthodontist advised him against consuming gooey pizza cheese—and languidly half-listened as Aimee Gomez talked about herself…and only herself. 

“…I *do* like the episode with William Shatner; he was on “Star Trek”, right?” Aimee chattered, oblivious to Brian’s own oblivion. 

There were *two* episodes starring Shatner. “Nightmare at 20,000 Feet” and “Nick of Time”. Both airing just before his “Trek” heyday. 

Sigh. 

“Anyway,” Aimee continued on, plucking a pepperoni from her slice and popping it into her mouth. “I like ‘Outer Reaches, too. I swear, I am *such* a nerd!” 

Brian contemplated stabbing himself in the face with his own fork. It was “Outer Limits”!

“…and then he said, ‘That’s *my* jacket’ ‘cause it looked like a guy’s but it was totally a girl’s. Isn’t that funny? He’s funny!”

Oh, and she had spent an inordinate amount of time talking about Hardy Jenns. If Brian was still into Amanda Jones, maybe he’d have concocted a plan with Aimee to tear them apart. Alas, her humiliating him in front of thirty of their peers caused any soft feelings he had for her to vanish. Poof! Gone. 

He wondered what Aimee Gomez thought of Amanda Jones if she was so into Hardy Jenns. Which she was. Obviously.

After Antonio’s, Aimee gleefully dragged Brian to the mall. As he could not conceive of a polite way to end the date, he silently acquiesced. He hated the mall. Except for the video game store. 

Hangdog, Brian trailed after an obliviously chatting Aimee Gomez as she dipped in and out of stores and boutiques and whatnot. Passing through the endless racks of Victoria’s Secret wasn’t incredibly awkward or anything, especially when Aimee decided to try on stuff. Brian would’ve rather have been anywhere else. Including his therapy group, which he hated. 

Outside of the Limited, Brian wondered if this was to be Bender’s fate. 

It was the first time he’d emitted anything close to laughter all day. 

When Aimee finally emerged, she was wearing a new striped sweater and gushing about it. Only when he unexpectedly bumped into Claire and two of her fellow Richie friends did the enormous anvil on his shoulders disappear. He knew, of course, never to address any of his Club friends in public, wherever that may be, but he was desperate. 

“Claire Standish. I, um, finished your homework for you,” he muttered. Truly, he’d never done Claire’s homework, nor would she ask (unless said homework was a collective essay to Mr. Vernon), but he’d needed an excuse to address the Princess before her acolytes. 

For her part, Claire caught on quickly. “Oh! Thanks, um, Brian. I owe you one.” The two girls a few paces behind her looked perplexed, shrugging shoulders hefty with shopping bags. Brian knew exactly who they were—Sloane Peterson, varsity cheerleader and Ferris Bueller’s girlfriend, and Megan Hicks, whose smoky-whiskey voice had made lesser men drop dead. 

They were Benny Hanson’s minions of evil. Ugh, he hoped she wasn’t here, too. 

Aimee giggled and waved a hand. “Hi, guys! So cool to bump into you here!”

Claire’s smile was pained. “Oh. Hi, Aimee.”

Uncomfortably, Sloane and Megan repeated the words. 

Gritting his teeth, Brian broke through the invisible barrier erected between himself and his “date” and the popular girls. He had no other choice. Taking a too-friendly step toward Claire, he beseeched her with his eyes. “Please. Get me out of this,” he whispered beneath his breath. 

Claire’s grin grew and became more genuine. For just a second. Cocking her red head to the side, she nodded once then gazed past his shoulder to a bubbly Aimee, whose metallic smile had not vanished all night. “Um, Aimee. We’re almost done here. We’re headed for the caf. Um, do you want to join us?”

Aimee’s eyes widened, and Brian sagged in relief. “I would love to! But…I’m on a date…”

Brian bade himself to approach Caroline’s friend and tap her on the shoulder. She was a good half-foot shorter than him. “You, um, g—go with the girls. It—it’s fine.” 

Aimee’s eternal smile broadened all the more. “Are you sure? I don’t want to, like, abandon you!” She looked uncertain, as though wondering what Caroline would say. 

Brian coerced a sad nod. “I r—really don’t m—mind. Er, I’m j—just gonna w—walk around a little, a little bit.” 

He was planning to hit the video game store, maybe Suncoast, then am-scray. He’d catch a bus home. 

“Okay!” Aimee rushed to embrace him, then joined the other girls, bouncing. Brian flashed Claire a grateful look. 

The Princess’ answering smile was brief, she patted his bicep as the girls walked past, and he sighed in relief. 

Their silhouettes lost in the bustling mall crowd, Brian turned heel and began to walk toward the video game store. 

Maybe a Princess wasn’t his Meant to Be, after all. 

Then…who was?  
**

For the first time, well, ever, Claire Standish did not want to go shopping. 

Indeed, she was absolutely dreading it. Having to spend all afternoon with the likes of Benny, the Luders, et. al. Alas, she knew that she hadn’t been spending enough time with her fellow Princess “friends”, and it was all starting to look…suspicious. Benny, at the most, was beginning to ask questions Claire couldn’t really answer. 

“Okay, *why* have you been so *weird* lately?” the blonde self-imposed Queen of Shermer High would bark over the phone.

In response, Claire would pull at the collar of her top, like something out of a “Looney Tunes” cartoon. And she was Daffy. Not even Bugs, who could get out of any given situation. Even Elmer Fudd pointing a rifle at him. ‘Wow. Cartoons are kind of messed up.’ “Um…nothing? I’ve, uh, just been busy…”

Claire could damn near hear the girl twirling her hair around her finger as she did whenever she was annoyed or distressed. “’Busy’ how?” 

“…I’ve, um, been upstate taking care of my grandmother? And, like, I started taking singing lessons. ‘Cause Grandmother wanted me to.” 

‘What the hell kind of excuse is *that*? “I’m taking singing lessons”? God, you’re becoming such a lame-o.” 

A pause would ensue, and Claire gripped the receiver, her knuckles turning increasingly red, then white, whilst she prayed and prayed to whichever god would listen—or saint; her family was Catholic, after all; was there a patron saint of lying to your supposed “best friend”?; if not, there needed to be—listening to Benny’s minute breaths and the popping of gum on the other end. She grit her teeth and burrowed her head in her neck. 

Then, her prayers were answered. Benny guffawed. “…*singing lessons*? My God, Claire, didn’t you do that when you were like, ten?”

Claire felt her pulse slow back to normal. “Six through nine. It was my mother’s idea.” Claire had a decent voice, and Nora had had the ambition that her daughter become the next Tina Turner. 

“Of course it was. Your mom’s crazy. Even for Shermer. Anyway, when’s your next *lesson*, Little Miss Songbird, because I really wanna go to the mall. I need new…stuff.” 

And Claire had lied, again, that she was free this weekend because she hadn’t hung out with her old friends in…it seemed like eons. She’d talked with them on the phone, but kept making excuses to avoid their company. She didn’t *like* who she was with them. And…she was starting to realize that she didn’t like her “best friend” much anymore. Or never really had. 

For the first time, she understood what having *real* friends felt like. And she didn’t want to go back. 

And so, that was how she found herself that Sunday trolling through the achingly familiar halls of the Shermer Hills Mall, flanked on either side by Vanessa Parker and Amanda Jones. Stuck smack dab in the middle of their little cavalcade, Benny Hanson took the lead, as usual, with the Luders on either side of her, those guard dogs, and Sloane Peterson and Megan Hicks trailing behind. 

They didn’t seem to want to be here, either. 

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on Claire’s part. 

At the “fork in the road” outside of Sam Goody and Walden Books, the reluctant Princess Parade, each clutching different bags (Claire may have *not* wanted to go on this little trip, but she was here, wasn’t she?), Benny abruptly stopped, causing the rest of the girls to slam into each other like dominoes. Completely uncaring about the other mall-goers behind them trying to enjoy their own lazy Sunday. 

“Okay, I am *dying* to check out that sale in Ann Taylor,” Benny exclaimed as she turned around, her long, blonde hair whipping the right side of her face. “Supposedly, the whole store is being discounted.”

Normally, that knowledge would’ve excited and invigorated Claire, as well. Today, however, she didn’t give much of a shit. “The Limited’s also having a sale.” 

Benny rolled her blue eyes. “I am so tired of The Limited, it’s so over. And their clothes keep shrinking in the wash. Not that *I* do it. The maid does it.” 

‘God forbid Benjamina Hanson do her own laundry.’ Claire had taken to the habit of participating more in household chores in order to take some stress off Greta’s shoulders. 

She was also getting quite tired of Benny. And her absurd histrionics. “Well, I still like them. I want to check them out.”

Benny blinked, patently not used to anyone, let alone an easily manipulated “friend” like Claire, disagreeing with her. “U—um.” She was obviously trying to regain her bitchy equilibrium. “Okay, I guess, fine. I mean, if *you* still like them, whatever, even though they’re way over. Way. We’ll split up and meet in the caf.” 

Claire nodded. Before she could take a few steps toward the store in question, she heard the echo of rapidly advancing feet behind her—a few rapidly advancing feet. Upon spinning around, she discovered Sloane and Megan running to catch up with her. 

“We want to go, too! I love The Limited!” Sloane cried. She even wore a tee that was clearly from The Limited. Probably why Benny had so brazenly claimed they were “so over”. Just to piss off Sloane, who’d won Student Council Veep over her last year. 

Megan nodded her dark head in agreement. “Their prices are better than Ann Taylor’s.” 

Benny scoffed. “*Fine*. We’ll meet in front of Wetzel’s Pretzels in the caf in an hour. Or is that not long enough for you three to squeal over your favorite store?”

Stacy Luder chortled. “Yeah, like, totally, it’s kind of sad.”

Her sister backed her up, as always. “That store is so over.” 

Claire rolled her own eyes. “Fine. Wetzel’s Pretzels.” And then inclined her head, gesturing for the other two girls to follow. 

“There’s really a store-wide sale?” Sloane asked as she sidled up to her. 

Claire shook her head. She knew that saying this may put her in hot water, but, honestly, she didn’t care as much as she used to. Strange how some things seem so...important and necessary one day, and then, poof! Those same things just…didn’t much matter anymore the next. “Nah. I just wanted to get away from Benny for a while.” 

Megan, at her other side, guffawed. Sloane also smirked, but she tried to hide it in her blouse. “I hear that,” Megan chortled, nodding in agreement. 

Sloane mock-glared at them both. “That’s not very nice!”

Claire shrugged in her pink pullover. She’d barely gotten dressed up for this, as she habitually did whenever she went to the mall. Like it was some sort of showcase or catwalk or something. Today, she merely donned a worn-in pair of jeans and an oversize pink Esprit sweatshirt. Benny had said she looked “homeless”. “Neither is Benny.”

Megan laughed some more; she appeared to be enjoying this takedown. “I hear that, too!” 

Sloane folded her hands in her hips. “She’s our friend!”

Both Claire and Megan cocked their heads to the side and gazed at the brunette. No, Benny was not their friend—not really. At most, she was their “leader”, their “dictator”. She was someone whose rule no one dared question, least of all Claire and the other girls. Every dictator had resources—the sycophants who Yes, Ma’amed every little thing she did and said, the tiny, little body, the boyfriend—Benny was currently schmoozing with Leo Cortez. Claire’s lips thinned, her reaction palpable. 

Sloane merely ducked her head and blushed a little. “Kind of? Right?”

Megan snorted and pushed her ebony hair off her shoulder. “Yeah, okay. And I’m Tony Robbins.” 

Claire silently thought that Megan and Allison would get along. 

Sloane twisted from side to side, hands clasped before her green cotton skirt. “We’ve known her since first grade…” 

Megan scoffed and sashayed on ahead. “Yeah, when she stole *all* of our Barbies! Then blamed us for it. And won.” 

Claire nodded sagely. “She did do that. And the teachers believed her story.” 

“She claimed they were hers and *we* stole them. She’s *not* a good friend.”

“But it was first grade!” Sloane meekly tried to keep defending their fearless leader. 

“And she hasn’t changed one bit,” Megan parried, walking into the store. 

Without another word, the other two girls followed. 

Claire gazed around where she stood at the entrance of the store, hunting. This was her usual shopping technique—she’d mentally jump from rack to rack until she found something that she wanted to try on or buy. A pair of jeans that fit just right (and since she was tall, they could be difficult to find). A flirty summer dress. A soft cashmere top in her signature color. 

Ultimately, her Shop-O-Meter went off ogling a pink cardigan with mother of pearl buttons. Claire beamed and trod to the rack in question to further examine it, not bothering to look at the price tag; she rarely did. Holding it up to her chest to gauge how it would fit, Claire considered that shopping was a lot more pleasant when she wasn’t trailing Benny, listening to her bitch about their classmates or lamenting that something she liked didn’t come in her size. Which was extra-small; she loved to remind people of that.

Out the corner of her eye, she watched Sloane sidle up beside her. The girl was clutching a cute white sundress dangling off a wooden hanger. “Soooo,” she began after a moment of combing through the racks, then suddenly lowered her voice. As though they were sharing a secret. “You’re seeing someone, right?”  
…  
They were, indeed, sharing a secret. Claire felt all the blood ease from her face, though she forced herself not to turn on her heel and face Sloane, who she could tell was grinning. “Wh—what makes you think that?”

Sloane snickered. “Well. Besides the very obvious stutter just now…come *on*, Claire, ‘singing lessons’?”

“Wh—who told you about that?” Damn this sudden stutter. 

“Benny.” Megan slid up to Claire’s other side, and her heart jumped in her throat. Now, she *did* turn to face her beautiful friend. Megan shrugged shoulders hidden in a black baby-tee. “She immediately called the both of us after she hung up with you.”

Naturally.

“It was on three-way,” Sloane added, and Claire spun to regard her this time. 

‘A three-way calling attack. Typical. I’m almost offended that I wasn’t included.’ In the literal sense, anyway. Spiritually, she’d definitely been there. 

How many times had her “best friend” gossiped about her behind her back to their other friends? 

Claire sighed, rotating between Sloane’s and Megan’s expectantly amused visages. There was no way out of this situation. She could lie, she supposed, but Megan at least had always been quite capable of spotting a doozy. And Claire was only a good liar when it came to spouting bullshit to *adults*; with her friends, she was frigging transparent. 

“Okay,” she admitted, morosely pulling the cardigan off the hanger. She hated being cornered. And she was totally cornered right now. “I am…seeing someone…sort of…” 

Not that John would call it that in a million years. Not out loud. 

Sloane squealed, jumping in place and clapping like the cheerleader she was. Megan’s reaction was more subdued, simply a dry chuckle, but Claire shushed them both anyway in case there were other Shermer students here. It was entirely possible, considering The Limited was a popular store and this *was* the Shermer Hills Mall. 

“Be quiet, won’t you?!” Claire hissed beneath her breath, gaze frantically jumping around the store. And even out into the bustling corridor. 

“Why?” Megan continued laughing; Claire scowled at her. “Who are you dating, Vernon?” 

Sloane broke up in giggles. Claire shuddered in revulsion. “Ew! No!” For the first time, Claire considered that Vernon had, at one point, been their own age because obviously. With all the same wants, fears, and self-loathings as they had, just in a different era. And he wasn’t even that old! Not, like, Stone Age old or anything. 

Talk about bizarre. 

“Then who?” Megan continued to demand, tapping her sandal-clad foot. “Come on, Standish, out with it.”

“Yeah, out with it!” Sloane parroted, sounding way too much like the Luders in that moment. 

Claire considered. She had wanted to tell *someone* for some time. Someone else, outside of the Breakfast Club. It definitely wasn’t to be Benny; Claire almost gagged at the mere thought. The Luders and Vanessa Parker were out; they’d go right to the source with the information. And Amanda Jones would spread more gossip. That left Sloane and Megan, the two more “chilled” of their group. It wasn’t like she was going to open up to her father or anything. Weird. Although, it was quite possible her dad knew or suspected already; he had eyes everywhere in Chicago. And he *had* seen them come out of detention together. ‘And other things,’ Claire thought with a blush. She couldn’t believe she had allowed John to kiss her right in front of her father’s car!

“Okay,” she said again, making a decision. “But you are both sworn to secrecy. I mean, like, CIA classified secrecy!” Claire glared between them, first one, then the other. 

Megan guffawed some more; the more Claire revealed, the more entertained she was. “Fingers crossed.”

“Pinky swear,” Sloane added, then mimed zipping her lips. “My lips are sealed. So, who is it, who is it?!” 

Claire inhaled deeply, looking down at the toes of her flats. Well, she had come this far, right? “Um,” she faltered, gnawing on her lower lip as she had done whenever she was nervous since childhood. Her palms began to sweat, and she wiped them off on the sides of her jeans. If she was going to tell her “secret” to anyone…Sloane and Megan were cool, right? Right? They wouldn’t pull a Benny or an Amanda Jones and, like, blab all over the school. Right? ‘I mean, they *did* trash Benny with me so…’ 

Oh, God, she had to get this off her chest before she exploded. 

Sloane began tapping her sneakered foot, too. Claire cleared her throat. And pulled off the Band-Aid. “…do you guys know…John Bender?”

Claire cringed, awaiting the reprimands. They didn’t come. Only the intermingled giggling of both girls. As well as the shocked intake of breath from Sloane. “*Know him*?!” Megan exhaled, her mouth forming a perfect O of surprise. “Claire! Dude! *Everyone* knows him! He’s, like, Vernon’s worst enemy. Or something.”

Sloane concurred. “He’s been in more trouble with him than my older sister, and she set a house on fire once.” 

Megan wasn’t done cackling. As in, bent over her knees clutching her stomach cackling. Claire scowled. “Claire. Tell me you’re dating John Bender. Please. Because that’s the funniest damn thing I’ve ever heard.”

‘’Dating”? I don’t know. Would he call it that now? I doubt it.’ Claire crossed her arms over her Esprit sweatshirt. “Thanks a lot!”

Sloane stepped in to assuage any burgeoning argument. “She just meant…that we’re surprised! That’s all.” 

The shorter brunette was still chuckling. “’Surprised’ is one way to put it. Jesus, Claire! Are you rebelling or something? I heard the guy did *time*!” 

Claire immediately shook her head. “That’s not true.” John was many things, *many* things, but a real, live criminal, he was not. A rebel, maybe. Someone who raised the finger at authority. A guy who liked death metal and rode a motorcycle like…like he’d been born on one. But a true, flesh-and-blood criminal? No, that was Vernon’s assumption. Although… “He did call a cop Porky Pig once, but other than that…” It was during their 4th of July…evening. They passed a cop in his uniform, and John, careless, called him Porky Pig. Claire almost broke up in giggles with the remembrance. 

“You’re defending him,” Megan marveled, all laughter gone. Her eyes were wide in her face. “Jeez, you must *really* like him. Like, not just slumming or using him to get back at your parents. Or whatever. You really dig him.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to. Megan had already seen through the thin veneer to the reality. She was good at that, too. 

Yes, Claire really did like him. A lot. Maybe even…more than like. But she wouldn’t go there. Not yet. 

“Well, of course she does!” Sloane cried, and Claire wished that she would keep her voice down. “I guess…I understand. I mean, Ferris wasn’t really the kind of guy I saw myself with, either. He's careless. He's too spontaneous. He doesn't care about getting in trouble. But now, I can’t imagine a world without him in it!”

‘Yeah, but everybody *likes* Ferris Bueller. Everybody either hates or is terrified of John.’

Megan shrugged. “John Bender, huh? Damn! I guess he *is* kind of hot…in that ‘I will straight up stab you’ kind of way.” 

That made Claire laugh. ‘Stab a desk, maybe. But a person?’ “He’s actually pretty bad in fights. Andy bested him easily in detention. But don’t spread that around.” 

Both girls snorted, clearly amused. “Andy Clark was there, too?” Sloane asked, her head cocked to the side. 

Claire nodded. “And a few other people.” Should she tell them that she was clandestinely hanging out with all of them, too? She wouldn’t mention names. That, she wasn’t quite ready for. “We all became kind of tight.”

“Jesus, Claire,” Megan laughed again. “Well, shit! We wanna meet your new friends!”

Sloane agreed. “Yeah, we want to see who you’ve been blowing us off for!”

A cringe. Claire hated to think that she’d been blowing off *these* two. But she had been. A lot. “You will. Soon enough. I just, um, I can’t. Yet.” She could not get beyond this mental block…and said mental block looked a lot like Benny. And what her reaction would be to seeing all of the Club walking down the hall together. 

The two girls nodded, understanding. They, too, must’ve known what it was like. To feel suffocated by your high school status. The need to fit in. The desperation to live up to widespread belief. The pressure. It was like…living inside a pressure cooker at all times. One had to do whatever it took to keep that pressure cooker from exploding. 

Sloane rested one manicured hand on Claire’s shoulder. “When you’re ready. We’d like to meet…him…too. Though, I think I may have, for a second. He’s Ferris’ friend. Kind of.” 

Megan snorted. “*Everyone* is Ferris’ friend. Look, Claire, if Caroline Mulford could do it, you so can.”

Caroline Mulford—one of the most popular and beautiful girls at school. And one of the nicest, if rumor was true. “Saint Caroline”, they called her. No one would ever mistake *her* for an Ice Princess. An unapproachable bitch. In a way, Claire had always been a wee bit jealous of Caroline—she was effortlessly, just, *nice*; she didn’t have a reputation otherwise. And now, she was dating that Ted guy. A Geek. Benny still wondered what the hell she was thinking. But she and Ted had done it—weathered the storm, the gossip, the stares. They’d been together for six months now; no one much noticed them anymore. 

Claire bit her lip again. “She’s…different.”

Like Ferris Bueller, everyone seemed to love Caroline Mulford regardless of clique. She was one of the few who could move from group to group seamlessly. Ferris Bueller also belonged to those Chosen Few. Claire…did not. She was a Princess, plain and simple.

But what if she didn’t *want* to be anymore?

Megan wasn’t going to accept *that* answer. “Pfft. What’s the worst that can happen? If you guys, all of you guys ‘come out of the shadows’ or whatever? Benny doesn’t like you anymore? Oh, woe is me!” 

Claire snorted there. She had a point.

“She’ll never be anything after high school, anyway,” the shorter brunette continued. “This is her peak, that’s it. After this, who will she get to boss around? No one will take that ish in college. She has *one* year left to be…Benny Hanson. You can blow all that out of the water.”

But, could she, though? Claire had never intended to start any revolutions or whatever. Although…perhaps she wasn’t meant to. Hadn’t Caroline already done so, in a way? And Jake Ryan and Samantha Baker? And Andie Walsh and Blaine McDonough? 

She had a lot to think about. Not that this was just her decision.

Sloane sighed. “Seriously. Why do you like him? John?”

That she knew the answer to. Unbidden, a smile bloomed across Claire’s face. “He’s…the only one who’s really *seen* me, you know? He held up a mirror to me that day in detention. I…didn’t entirely like what I saw. Guys, I don’t want to *be* that way. I don’t want to be Miss Ice Queen, 1984. I don’t want to be…” 

“…Benny,” Megan filled in, nodding. “You’re not. But, to be honest, Claire, for a while? I was worried you’d end up that way. You seemed to do whatever she told you to do.”

Claire winced. A harsh truth. Accurate, but harsh nonetheless. 

‘The truth can hurt.’

Sloane squeezed her shoulder. “We’d support you. What else?”

Claire’s smile was back upon her lips. Lips that he had kissed quite a few times. Thoroughly. “He makes me laugh. He can make me laugh and piss me off in the same breath, it’s unbelievable.” Both girls giggled. “And he’s way smart. He would get As easily if he ever bothered coming to class.” 

Megan nodded, still giggling. “He was in my geometry class last year. I think. Dude never showed up!”

“Typical,” Claire scoffed, rolling her eyes. But she was still smiling. He could be predictable when it came to his classroom habits.

Megan plucked the same cardigan that Claire had been eyeing off the rack in her size, in her own signature color of red. Sloane did the same in purple. Then, together, they marched up to the register to pay. 

Outside, to Claire’s surprise, they ran into Brian…and Aimee Gomez. One of Caroline Mulford’s particular friends. She had a reputation for being perpetually perky and upbeat, which she knew could wear thin after a while. And poor Brian looked to be quite worn thin. 

He begged her with his eyes; this must’ve been the blind date he’d chattered about the day before at Peggy Sue’s. Inwardly wincing, Claire decided to take pity on him and invited Aimee to lunch with the rest of the girls. ‘See how Benny deals with *that*.’ 

But he was going to owe her one.   
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: I definitely had all the games mentioned as a kid. I loved Duckhunt. That frigging dog! Ah, I miss the arcade.
> 
> Note 2: I think, overall, falling for Claire, truly falling and not just "Dang, I want a piece of that!", would make John question his behavior toward women in the past, much as having Dani had done to further those questions. I know NOW some of the shit he pulled in the movie-hi kindasorta sexual assault!--would be immediately condemned. But this was the 80s when everything we realize is no bueno now was just hilarious back then. 
> 
> Note 3: Full disclosure--I asked the inspiration behind Ty here, my brother's friend Tyrell, to provide some of Fic-Ty's dialog. So it's not all mine. 
> 
> Note 4: I frigging love the Twilight Zone; I watch the marathon every year. Screw you, Syfy, for not airing them every July 4th and every NYE like Sci-Fi did. "Death's Head Revisited" is my favorite, the one about the former SS officer who goes back to his "hunting grounds" at Dachau and is driven insane by the ghosts of the men he killed there. Awesome episode.
> 
> Note 5: Ah, mall culture. Suncoast and Walden Books and Wetzel's Pretzels. As a #90sKid, I am nostalgic. 
> 
> Note 6: Our cartoons growing up WERE kind of messed up lol I remember watching reruns of old Looney Tunes cartoons made as propaganda for deh kiddiez during the war; they aired as reruns here. Bugs Bunny dressing up as Hitler to fool a literal Nazi, I thought nothing of it of course. And then there was Ren and Stimpy making very obvious allusions to smoking dope. And Rocko of Rocko's Modern Life working a phone sex hotline! lol the 90s.


	16. Chapter 11: Adventures in Babysitting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I think this is about fifteen pages, too.
> 
> Content Warning: the last part of this chapter features an adult physically abusing a minor, reader discretion IS advised, if that triggers you please avoid

Chapter 11: Adventures in Babysitting

Andy hated babysitting duty.

It was the end of July and, though his mom was mad at his old man (he had signed Jack up for peewee football without her knowledge, mostly because he knew she would’ve said “Hell no!”), she had acquiesced to be taken out for their anniversary, anyway. Thus, Andy, being the oldest son in the house now that Greg had moved into his girlfriend’s apartment, had been relegated to brother-sitting duty. 

Groaning, from his perch on the couch, he stared for a moment whilst Kyle and Jack rolled around on the floor wrasslin’, very narrowly avoiding bumping into his mother’s various expensive tchotchkes. The crystal vase. The diamanté elephant figurines. The weird porcelain statuette of a Barbie doll hugging a dinosaur. Etcetera, ad nauseaum. 

“Guys! Cut it out!” Andy bellowed for the nth time that evening. 

Predictably, both middle Clark brothers ignored their sitter for the evening and continued beating the crap out of each other. Andy winced when they bumped into a precarious column on which sat a china plate painted with a portrait of Elizabeth I. For some reason. 

Hurriedly, Andy flipped on the TV, set the station to channel 3, and popped in a video; the Clarks had just gotten a brand new VCR in lieu of their old Betamax player. Video cassettes were much easier and clearer to play. 

The ensuing sound of the opening music of “The Godfather” flooded the living room. It was the boys’ favorite movie. Lo they weren’t permitted to watch it this late, as tended to give them both nightmares—the scene where Sonny met his end via a deluge of bullets never failed to make them scream—Andy hoped his mom would let it slide just this once; how else was he supposed to make them avoid killing each other…and the living room? Bowls of ice cream would only last so long. 

Instantly, both boys stopped, as Andy had hoped, and plunk, stood up, and plunked themselves in front of the TV. Good. 

Sighing, he leaned back into the couch cushions and told himself to settle in for an evening of boredom. As much as he loved “The Godfather”, too, how many times could a person sit through the exact same movie?

Besides, he couldn’t concentrate. Not tonight. His mind was occupied with images of Allison. 

Good God, she already bewitched him. Only dating a few months, he could not conceive of a world without her in it. Beautiful and intelligent, she surprised him regularly—whether it was with something she said or something she *ate*--and often blew his mind with how talented she was behind an easel. She had painted him the other day. 

Er, fully clothed, of course. In his letterman’s jacket. With his trusty golden retriever, Duke. He knew that she had painted a few nude models in the past, but he was a different story. He wasn’t just some arbitrary model whom she’d never see again. Had to be a conflict of interest or something. 

Ah. Why was he torturing himself like this? ‘I should just give her a call.’ Dozens of movies and TV shows couldn’t be wrong, right? And anyway, who said that only *girls* could invite their significant others over for a night of babysitting?

Reaching for the telephone, he decided to do just that. 

The doorbell rang much quicker than Andy would’ve expected. Setting aside the baseball magazine he’d been perusing, Andy trod to the front foyer. “Don’t worry—I’ll get it,” he drawled to the backs of his enraptured brothers. They said nothing in reply, and he rolled his eyes and pulled open the front door. 

Ally was on the other side, effortlessly lovely in a black dress and leggings. She held aloft a plastic bag without preamble. “Pretty sure everything that is bad for you is in this bag.” 

Andy chuckled, took the bag from her, and gestured her inside. He closed the door behind her and then joined her on the couch a few feet behind his hypnotized brothers. 

Allison searched through the plastic bag and pulled out a packet of stovetop popcorn. She stood on her Chucks-clad feet. “I can make it.” She turned to address the backs of Jack and Kyle. “Hope you guys like salted.” 

Mutely, both boys nodded their ascent. Andy wasn’t even sure if they’d heard her. Or that they even knew she was here in the first place. 

Ally laughed and walked into the kitchen. A moment later came the whoosh of the gas stovetop as it turned on. 

She quite easily knew her way around his house, now. Carol loved her—he’d managed to find a way to introduce her without alerting Tim to her presence, though it wasn’t easy—and his brothers had stopped referring to her as Raggedy Ann after she played them in a game of pool—and won. Now, they affectionately called her Raggedy Ally, but his girlfriend didn’t seem to mind. 

She emerged from the kitchen and dining room a few minutes later carrying a ripped open tin toil plate and balloon of popcorn. “’Leave the gun, take the cannolis’,” she quoted, then jumped off the step separating the dining room from the living room and joined him on the couch. Andy snaked an arm around her, then, with the hand resting over her shoulders, plucked some popcorn and stuffed the kernels in his mouth. 

Ally’s handful was much daintier. “You’re gonna choke on a stray kernel that way.” 

Andy shrugged. “I chew good.” With his mouth full, the words came out like “Ah choo goot.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Ally insisted, somehow understanding him through all the popcorn. “Invariably, a half-chewed kernel will lodge on the back of your tongue, and you will move heaven and earth to get that bastard out.”

She had a point. Andy chewed more slowly. 

“Shhh!” Kyle and Jack hissed at the same time, finally craning their necks to regard Ally and Andy. “Quiii-ettt!” Kyle whined. Jack stood to palm some popcorn. 

Andy brandished his hands palm-out in surrender. One still lay over Allison’s shoulders. “Sorry. I forgot, you both’ve only seen this movie a hundred times.” 

Allison was on the boys’ side on this one. “Again, doesn’t matter. One can never watch ‘The Godfather’ enough.”

“See?” Jack stuck out his tongue. “Allison agrees with us!”

“Yeah,” Kyle agreed, turning back to the television screen. “That’s ‘cause she’s way cooler than you.” 

Andy scowled as Allison cackled. Hurling a few kernels at the back of his brother’s head, he settled back into the couch. Kyle merely shrugged, plucked the popcorn off the floor, and popped it all in his mouth. 

Gross. His mom had just deep-cleaned the carpet. It stunk of Lysol and vinegar in here. 

Toward the end of the movie, Andy’s hand was idly resting on Allison’s thigh when he felt her gaze boring a hole into the side of his face. His eyes remained forward, as though embroiled in the film, lo he had seen it many times, but in reality, he definitely knew that she’d been staring at him for the past few minutes. 

Eventually, he watched in his peripheral whilst she leaned in and pressed her lips against his neck. Andy smiled like a dope. Hurriedly, his gaze ticked to his brothers, both of whom were still enraptured with the movie, and he turned and kissed her. 

They were full-on making out—all swollen lips and wandering hands and fists gripping the other’s hair—when he felt the gazes of two unwelcome spectators on his other cheek. Pulling away from her reluctantly, Andy slowly craned his head to face his younger brothers, both of whom were now turned away from the TV set and were gawking at them with exaggeratedly serene expressions, their hands clasped beneath their chins. 

Andy rolled his eyes. Allison slid a bit away from him and ducked her head, blushing. “Take a picture,” he drawled to his brothers, his expression flat. “It’ll last longer.” 

Kyle and Jack pursed their lips in tandem. The younger—and more mischievous—of the two was pretending to caress his own body with his hands. Jack laughed. 

Allison flushed deeper. Andy flipped them both off. 

The boys only cackled harder. 

When the movie was over and they were sprawled out on the floor in a deep sleep, Allison rose from the couch. He thought that she was going back home and he was a bit bummed, but then she held her hand out to his. Mystified, Andy hesitated only the briefest second before grasping her palm in his and pulling himself to his stocking feet. 

Then, she led him up the stairs. 

They didn’t emerge from his bedroom for a while.  
**

Brian was terrified. 

He should’ve known better, he knew that. But, well, he was growing kind of desperate, and desperation makes you do stupid things. 

Why the hell had he let Bender set him up with one of his Wallet Girls? One of the younger ones from Shermer, but still!

Suzanne Phelps was terrifying. 

Oh, she was a stunner, that was undisputed. Blonde and compact, with tanned skin and violet eyes framed by thick lashes, she looked like something out of a music video. One of those head-bangers on MTV Bender loved. But…she was just as intimidating as her sexy as hell image hinted at. 

He’d managed to meet her when he was trolling through the used record store near Bender’s place with his friend, a storefront only called Trax set smack dab in the middle of a slightly crumbling strip mall. The bizarrely-dressed redhead behind the front counter rather looked like Claire. How weird. 

Suzanne was there in the aisle to interrupt the monotony of standing there while John leafed through album after album after damn album. Guy was picky. 

The black-clad Suzanne was strolling up to them clutching Led Zeppelin’s IV album in the crook of one arm. “Well, if it isn’t Johnathon Bender.”

Brian almost choked on his own spit. ‘Johnathon?!’ 

Bender glowered without turning to regard the blonde. “Hi, Suzie-Q, and never call me that again.” 

This “Suzie-Q” guffawed, a big belly-laugh, and slapped his back. “Knew that would get a reaction outta ya. You’re so predictable.” 

That had John spinning on the toe of his boot to face her. “I am not! I’m mad, bad, and dangerous to know!”

Suzie-Q was not taking any of his shit. Brian kinda liked that. “Yeah, okay, Lord Byron. And who’s your friend?” He watched warily as the girl sidled up to him in an almost predatory manner—slow, calculated, controlled. 

When she lightly pressed up against him, Brian felt the back of his neck heating. Probably his face, too. 

Bender had resumed leafing through albums. “Eh, that’s the Brainiac.” 

He did not seem to care or be worried at all that someone in his circle had spotted him with Brian Johnson of all people.

Huh.

Suzie-Q lightly bit her lower lip—but not in the way Claire did whenever she was confused. She smirked around the bite, and Brian gulped. 

‘We have a live one here. I think.’

“B—Brian,” he introduced himself, sticking out his arm like an idiot. For the nth time, he damned his stutter. 

The blonde’s grin widened. She took his hand in hers, and Brian almost swooned at how soft her skin was. “Suzanne. Do you like Indian food, Brian?”

He had never actually tried Indian food but he nodded, enthused, anyway. “I love it!”

“Hey, I just had an idea!” Bender spun around—literally—clutching a copy of Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid” album. He gestured between Brian and Suzanne. “You two should go out!” 

Suzanne ran a hand down his arm. “I’m already with you on that, Bender.” 

And that was how John Bender technically set Brian up with Suzanne Phelps, one of his go-to Wallet Girls. 

Not that he’d gone to her lately. Brian hoped. 

Or had hoped. Having never tried Indian food before, at the only Indian restaurant in town, Hari’s, they both ordered the Tandoori Chicken. Suzanne was having no problem with it. Brian, however, felt as though his mouth were on fire. And his stomach began to rumble dangerously. The sauce was so spicy, he started to sweat. Noticeably. 

Suzanne laughed and urged him to eat more. “I thought you *loved Indian food!”

Brian pulled at the collar of his neck. ‘Is it hot in here or is it just me?” “I do. Excuse me.”

And he ran into the little boys’ room. Suzanne’s laughter trailing him all the while.

Next, they went roller-skating at the local skating rink, aptly just named Rink. Brian could *barely* skate as it was. He kept clinging to the safety of the edges—quite literally; he clinged to the rink wall—but that definitely didn’t satisfy Suzanne, an expert skater, it appeared. She rented blades and dragged him away from the wall he was gripping onto for dear life into the perilous middle, the slippery middle. 

Predictably, he slipped within seconds. Then slipped again trying to get up. 

After the disastrous rink experience, she brought him to her favorite club, Club Skunk in the quote unquote “Red Light District”. The deejay, a literal ex-con who was sent away for *murder*, spun only heavy metal songs. “”None of that weepy Duran Duran shit,” he’d spat. Brian remained steadfastly at the table while Suzanne danced and got into a verbal altercation on the dancefloor. That verbal altercation turned into a physical one, and Brian witnessed his first literal knife fight. 

Following the sojourn to the club, Brian directed her to the movie theatre. He’d figured *that* would’ve been safe; they were only seeing a romantic comedy. But halfway through the film, Brian got up to use the bathroom, and Suzanne pulled him in as he passed. He yelped, and Suzanne, wearing that same predatory grin and not much else, her knife clutched between her front teeth, rubbed up against him whilst he practically glued himself against the outside of one of the stalls, eyes wide in both arousal and terror. The mostly naked girl was nice, and all, but what the HELL did she intend on doing with that knife?

Brian clenched his teeth as she pressed harder, yelped again, then ran like Hades was on his heels. 

Oh, boy. He was *never* going to let Bender set him up again. 

Back at home, exhausted and eternally perplexed from his “date” with one of John Bender’s infamous Wallet Girls, his mom was already storming up to him where he stood wavering in the foyer. “Young man, just *where* have you been?”

Brian gulped. ‘Great. Yet another terrifying woman.’ “M—mom, I t—told you I had a d—date.” 

Damn stutter. 

Mercedes Johnson furrowed her brow. “I thought you were joking! I need you to run to the store for me. I need more milk, bread, and sanitary napkins. Oh! And get me some more coffee. And Mary wants more ice cream, we’re all out. No, wait, I’ll get you a list.”

As Mercedes turned her back and wiggled into the kitchen to write up a grocery list—one that included sanitary napkins—Brian slumped against a wall. 

Finished, his mom handed him the list in her barely eligible scrawl. “I put chips and Coke on there, too, for your dad. Do not spend my money on crap!”

Wordlessly, Brian turned to go. As he opened the storm door, keys in hand, he heard Mary shout from upstairs, “BRIAN! MAKE SURE TO GET ME ROCKY ROAD!”

This summer was not starting off well. 

**  
John was pissed.

He’d just had his first post-detention argument with Claire—shockingly, it’d taken this long—about *money* of all things. Not, like, the pictures of other girls he still carried in his wallet because he was a stubborn ass and getting rid of them was A Big Step he didn’t know if he was ready for or his incessant weed habit or the fact that his jacket kinda stunk like tobacco and wood shavings left over from Shop class (if *he* could smell it, surely she could; he felt like Pig Pen from the “Peanuts” cartoons). But nope. Cold, hard cash. 

It’d all started innocently enough. John brought her to Antonio’s—he usually went to Mike’s closer to his house but there’d certainly be people from his ‘hood there and he wasn’t quite ready to introduce Claire as his…whatever…to them. Not yet—and they ordered a pizza. Well, a medium pepperoni pizza and two slices of Hawaiian. Claire’s favorite kind of pizza was *Hawaiian*. As in, ham and pineapple. Yech. 

Whatever, her prerogative to eat weird fruity pizza. They’d been having a good time, talking about bullshit and slurping extra-large Cokes—John had to piss *so* bad!—when the waiter came by with the bill and Claire paid with her credit card (Daddy’s credit card) without even asking him. He got defensive—he had *some* money, thank you very much; he still had cash left over from his hamburger gig last summer, and there was that savings bond his grandma in Knoxville had sent him for his birthday-- accused her of seeing him as a “kept man”, and while she looked bewildered at first, it didn’t take long for her to fire back because they were both headstrong as hell and hated to admit wrongness in any capacity. 

Honestly, Bender was kinda turned on by her fire. It matched her hair perfectly. 

‘They don’t call ‘em “fiery redheads” for nothin’.’ 

Still. Damn Richies. Damn sexy Richie redheads who wear clothes made of a material wish “cash” in the name. 

She claimed he was being stupid and he hated being called stupid ‘cause his old man called him stupid all the time no matter what he did or didn’t do. Come in past midnight? Stupid. Didn’t mow the lawn to his exact specifications? Stupid. Stick a Band-Aid on some cut Jake gave him? Stupid. 

God forbid he fuck up the lawn; Jake was proud of it for some reason. It was one of the few that was still green on the block. Everyone else’s was patchy and yellow. 

Ah, he hated mowing the lawn. He hated the mower. ‘Frigging thing is older than dirt.’’ 

Jake would pay to care for his lawn…except get a new mower. And the dude worked in a factory that *made* mowers. 

Annoyed, John stepped on the gas of his twenty year old mower again after it sputtered off. It took three tries to get it to come back to life with a pathetic whine/growl, and he began pushing the thing across the property for the nth time. Narrowly missing his ma’s small garden at the base of the house. She liked colorful flowers. 

Woops, he ran into a tree. Oh fucking well. 

Angrily, John whirled the thing around again, and for the second time, it sputtered off. Throwing up his hands in defeat and giving the old mower a solid kick of frustration, John pushed it back in the garage—the same garage he had spilled paint in when he was fourteen and the old man had reacted with a cigar burn—and pushed through the side door into the den. He prayed Jake wasn’t in there. 

He was. ‘Damnit. Damnit!’ 

His lump of a father—who’d looked *a lot* like himself when he was younger, or so proved his parents’ wedding photo, but now was a beer-bellied sack of shit—craned his neck when John entered, stared at him for a second, then nonchalantly turned back to the blaring television. “Dragnet” was on—his old man’s favorite. 

“Ya mow the lawn, kid?” Jake asked him without looking away from the TV set.

He’d mowed the frigging lawn until that old mower wouldn’t let him anymore. “Yeah."

Jake knocked back the bottle of beer he clutched in his hand. “Didn’t run over your mother’s plants, did ya?”

Close. But “close” only counted with horseshoes and hand grenades. “No.”

A slight bobbing of the head as Jake nodded. “Good. Now. I need ya to clean out your room.

Clean out his *room*? He never did that! And because John was an idiot, he argued. “…why? I never do that shit.”

Jake craned his neck too regard him for the briefest moment before turning back to the TV. “Just do it! Your ma’s been on my back.”

In his (dumbass defense; he *hated* picking up his room. The books all askew on the shelf, the clothes in a corner, the faded puke stain on the carpet from when he’d eaten one too many Chips Ahoy as a kid—all of that was familiar to him. Comfortable. He thrived better in organized chaos. His room was a mess, that went without saying, but it was *his* mess. He knew where everything was. His jeans on the floor of the closet. His socks not in the sock drawer but on top of the hamper. His school books…he had no idea where the hell those were. 

But the point was, bless this mess. 

John crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the back of his old man’s head. Asshole couldn’t even be bothered to face him. “I like my room how it is.” 

Now, Jake turned to regard him. He lumbered out of his Laz-E-Boy and slowly approached his son like he was a frigging lion to  
John’s antelope. John gulped. “Well, ‘your’ room is still under *my* roof so you’ll clean it,” he growled, grabbing the lapel of John’s flannel shirt. “And you’ll *like* it.” 

For some ridiculous reason, John could not stop himself. He leaned further in to his old man, who was shorter than him by an inch or two, and said, “And if I don’t?”

Stupid question. 

Without bothering to answer, Jake merely chuckled, craned his neck momentarily, then struck, punching John right in his eye. 

With the hand he wore his wedding ring on. The circle of metal gouged deep into his skin right above his eyebrow. Bright red blood instantly began pouring out of it, dripping down his face. 

John cringed but wasn’t surprised. At all. What the hell had he been thinking trying to go toe-to-toe with the old man? 

Once again, Jake chuckled. John clutched his eye with one hand. “And there’s more where that came from, you hear me, boy? That is if ya don’t clean yer room.”

John sighed and, without another word, trudged upstairs to the bathroom, his father’s laughter following him all the way. 

Quickly, he wound a piece of toilet paper around his wrist and raised it to the cut above his eye. It was already starting to swell at the base. Great. 

Without much thought, he trudged down the stairs, still bleeding, and ran out the back door. Too late, he forgot that Ty and his family were in Michigan visiting Joy, Ty’s older sister, and her husband. Muttering a curse, John raced around the house, thanked *God* his bicycle keys were in his pants pocket, and hopped on. He didn’t even know exactly where he was going until he reached Richieville.

John parked the bike across the street from Claire’s house—rich, nosy assholes would assume that her neighbor had a midnight visitor, whatever—then, a tad unsteady, marched across her lawn. Her huge ass lawn. He didn’t know entirely what he’d do—it wasn’t as if he could just ring the bell, not this late, not with her folks home---until he spotted a well-placed white trellis directly underneath a cement balcony; he only hoped that this led to Claire’s room and he didn’t, like, encounter her mother in her underwear. 

Holy hell, this *was* Claire’s room! Finally, a break for John Bender.

Wrapping his knuckles against the glass of the translucent balcony door, he tried to get Claire’s attention. She was a wake, at her vanity, preening. Of course. 

She didn’t hear him. He tried again. And again.

“Claire!” he pled, loathing the desperate catch in his voice. “Claire, open the door! Please.” 

He also hated saying “please”. Unless the usage resulted in nakedness. 

Claire straightened—again, thank *God*--twisted to gaze out the see-thru door, and placed her brush down. Clambering out of her vanity seat, she walked to the door. He stood shivering in the summer evening on the other side. 

“John?” she asked as she slid open the door. “What are you—oh, my God, get in here!”

She practically had to drag his sorry ass into her bedroom, and shut the door behind him with an uncaring thud. Plunking his bleeding self on the edge of her pristine pink bed, she raced into her en suite and returned a few minutes later brandishing a white first aid kit. 

He watched warily whilst she sat down beside him, opened the kit, and produced a few unopened bags of…something. She ripped them open, gently pushed his hand out of the way, and began blotting the cut with…he thought it was gauze. 

“Jesus,” she mumbled as she soaked the gauze with this brown stuff. “What happened?”

John twisted uncomfortably. Staring down at his weightless hands in his lap. He couldn’t look at Claire. He couldn’t meet her eyes. “…my old man…” 

In his peripheral, he saw Claire nod, then wordlessly began sifting through the kit again. A moment later, she began peppering the now clean wound with…some kind of material. “What are those?” he asked, gesturing with his chin to the baggie clutched in Claire’s hands. 

Shaking hands. She was grossed out. Had to be, he was fucking bleeding all over her sheets. 

He shouldn’t have come here. 

“Butterfly bandages,” she explained while she attached them to his cut. “They’ll keep the wound closed in lieu of stitches. 

Something tells me you don’t want to go to the hospital.” 

John grimaced. Ever since he was a kid, his old man had instilled in him how no Bueno going to the ER was. No matter what. 

They’d ask questions. And then he’d inevitably break if he was in pain, and then he’d be taken away; the staff definitely wouldn’t let him return home, not with an abusive father and a pill-popping mother. They’d call CPS, and CPS would take him to live with his nearest relative, who must’ve been his uncle. Lord knew where the man was now. 

Then, he’d never see his friends again.

He’d never see *Claire* again. 

He shook his head. “No hospitals” was all he said, still not meeting her eyes. He didn’t want to see the disgust in them. Not her. 

Claire nodded once more. “I figured. I mean, you came *here*, so…” 

She finished patching him up, using whatever materials she had on hand. Gauze, that brown shit, medical tape, those weird butterfly bandages. Then, only when she was finished, she rose, crossed to her crazy pink couch, and began clearing any stuff off of it.  
Her text books, a bag, some girly shit—makeup and he thought he caught an errant bra. 

Claire reached for one of the pillows on her massive bed and plunked it at the head of the settee. John’s eyebrow quirked. The one that wasn’t injured. “Claire. *What* are you doing?” 

She was fluffing the pillow as she answered. “Making your bed” she said as though it should’ve been obvious.  
\  
John’s brow furrowed. “My *bed*?!” 

Claire paused, hands on hips, and sighed. “Yes, John. Unless you want to sleep on the floor. I figured the chaise was more comfortable.”

His jaw was nearly on the floor. “You…you’re letting me *sleep* here?!” 

“Of course,” she replied—again, as though it should’ve been obvious. She even looked a mite offended that this was in question. Holy shit! “John,” this amazing, beautiful person crossed the room and knelt down before him. And not even in a sexy way! 

She grasped his chin in her hands, forcing him to look at her. To stop staring down in his lap like a cowed puppy dog. There was no disgust or uncertainty in her eyes—just concern. He wasn’t used to that. “Listen, I don’t know exactly what happened tonight. But I *do* know that it wasn’t your fault. I’m not going to send you back there! I’m not a monster!”

All macho bravado eked from his face, and he forced a sad smile. Then brushed her hand with his. She was trying to *help* him, not running away screaming. 

He wasn’t used to that, either. 

In the past, sometimes, he’d stay over a hook-up’s place just to avoid going home. Even though he wasn’t much a fan of the sleepover. Hell, he’d initiate...things…just to have somewhere to crash. He could’ve gone to Ty’s at any time, he knew; his buddy’s parents were very privy to the fact that John’s old man was awful. But Ty’s family didn’t have much more than his did. He hated taking up room. Eating their food. Wearing their clothes. 

With Claire, that wouldn’t be a problem. Her parents had more money than God. And therefore, lots of shit they didn’t need. A private chef to cook them outrageous meals. Tons of room. More than enough clothing. 

But still…

He didn’t want to be a fucking burden on her or anything.

“Claire,” he said. Squeezed her hand in his. Damn but her skin was soft. “I appreciate it, I really do, but I don’t want to, like, be an annoyance or anything…”

Claire was already swatting that notion away as if a tangible thing. “You wouldn’t be an annoyance, John. Didn’t you say that your dad’s on the warpath since he lost his job?”

He looked down at his knees poking through his pants. “He got another one. Some factory job.” 

“Either way,” she said, again forcing him to look at her. “John, I have plenty of room. You can always come here.” 

Rubbing the back of his neck, an old childhood habit, he briefly glanced at the comfortable-looking chaise lounge. Dang, that thing looked a lot more preferable to a hardbacked bench in the bus depot. “You sure?”

She nodded. “Absolutely. John, I don’t care what’s going on with us. If we’re fighting or whatever. You can always come here.”

The way she was looking at him, deep into him….it made his heart clench inside his chest. A heart he thought dead a long time ago. 

John gazed down at his fiddling fingers. “…sorry about before...”

If there was one thing John despised, it was saying sorry. But Claire was giving him a place to stay. A place to lay his head that wasn’t in a fucking freezing cold bus depot. And he had lashed out at her earlier. But she was *still* willing to help him. 

Jesus. He was such a dick. 

Claire’s smile was rueful. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I didn’t mean to be such a jackass.” Yes, he had. He was always a jackass. He couldn’t seem to help himself. 

“I would’ve gotten over it eventually,” she replied, shrugging a little. Rising from her crouching position to stand, he watched as Claire stepped over his feet and headed for the bedroom door. He thought. The room was so big, she could’ve been dodging for any number of things. The huge ass stereo. The shoe rack. A fucking pinball machine. “I’ll get you some things of my brother’s. He’s about your size, I think.” 

Mutely, John nodded. Part of him was telling himself to get the hell out of here and leave her alone, this wasn’t her problem, it was his, but it was so *warm* here and it was starting to storm outside and….

And…there were no pretty redheaded girls at the bus depot. 

John sighed as Claire returned a moment later clutching some clothing in her arms. Without a word, she handed the bundle over to him, her warmth seeping into the apparel. “My brother has his own place, but he leaves stuff here in case he sleeps over,” she explained in a curiously hushed voice. 

He bobbed his head, clutched the clothes to his chest, and went to change in the en suite. A pair of gray sweatpants and a fraternity t-shirt. 

John chuckled. This would be the second time he’d be sleeping in clothes not his own. With one article he’d never wear in a million years otherwise. He was no frat guy. But he pulled on the shirt anyway. 

When he emerged, Claire was spreading a blanket over the back of the chaise lounge. She looked up when he entered, gestured vaguely to the blanket, and shrugged. “It—it’s an afghan my grandmother knitted.”

John nodded. Then, with only a brief hesitation, approached the lounge. Laying upon it, staring up at the ceiling dotted with little multicolored butterflies, he realized that this lounge was more comfortable than his old mattress. 

He cleared his throat awkwardly whilst Claire grabbed pajamas to sleep in. “Thanks again, Cherry.”

Claire wordlessly bent over and kissed him. Then disappeared into the bathroom. She reemerged clad in a pair of light green pajamas patterned in tiny elephants in tutus.

A minute later, the lights turned off.

John had never slept so good.\\\

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: lol I am from New Jersey. The Godfather movies are practically a religion here. I've seen them SO many times.
> 
> Note 2: "How many times can one sit through the exact same movie?" Quite a few, actually, Andy lol *has seen Titanic over 300 times at this point, I can quote it verbatim*
> 
> Note 3:: I briefly considered making Brian's eventual girlfriend, Jackie, a Criminal. But I figured he would get on better with a fellow Brain.
> 
> Note 4:Club Skunk is directly lifted from 10 Things I Hate About You lol
> 
> Note 5: Suzanne is Christina Applegate circa Married With Children
> 
> Note 6: I love pineapple on pizza lol Hawaiian is my favorite #ThereISaidIt


	17. Chapter 12: Don't You Want Me, Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aloha! This one's twelve pages, methinks. lol I was in the middle of formatting and then suddenly my laptop burped and I had to start all over DO YOU KNOW HOW FRUSTRATING THAT IS OH. MY. GAWD! *ala Janice from Friends*

Chapter 12: Don't You Want Me, Baby

Claire awoke the next morning with a pair of arms wrapped around her torso from behind. 

John had crept to her side in the middle of the night. In pretty much any other situation, she would’ve leapt out of bed and started screaming. She did *not* have boys in her bed. Ever. But, to her surprise, she actually found it kind of nice, to wake up next to someone you truly cared about. To have his warm arms around you. To feel wanted as her, Claire, and not just a Claire Standish-sized trophy for her various one and done boyfriends to cart on their biceps. 

Claire leaned back into him for a moment until she felt him stir beside her, knowing that he was awake. Claire’s gaze flickered to the doorknob; she was glad that she had remembered to lock the door last night. The last thing she needed was for Greta, or worse, one of her parents, to barge in crowing about breakfast only to find a boy in her bed.

She chuckled. ‘Daddy would go apeshit.’ 

“Eh. Sorry” came a half-asleep rumble from behind her. “I, uh, was getting a neck cramp.” 

Claire could plainly see through the justification, and it made her laugh. “That’s okay…” 

John turned over on his back, still wearing the Sigma Chi t-shirt belonging to her brother. Amusing, as John definitely didn’t seem the frat guy type. Not like her preppy brother. Claire, in her stupid dancing elephant pajamas—she kinda wished she had worn something sexier to bed, like one of her silk nightgowns—rested her head against his chest absentmindedly. An instinct. She felt an arm snake around her middle, and a brief silence ensued, broken only by their intermingled breathing. She was loath to break it, so she said nothing. 

He did the breaking. As usual. “I should probably piss and brush my teeth.” 

Claire breathed a laugh. He was course and crude even first thing in the morning. “There’s an extra toothbrush under the sink. And the toothpaste is in the medicine cabinet.” 

She felt the arm around her midsection disappear and heard her box spring mattress groan beneath her as a large body hefted itself up. She instantly missed his warmth but again, said nothing. She was worried that saying so would make her sound too “Velcro”.

As John slumped toward her en suite, still dog-tired, Claire called, “And don’t drink from the bidet again! It’s not a fountain, John!” 

A chuckle echoed from behind the closed door of the bathroom. And then a wretch when he seemed to remember just what a bidet was.   
Claire stretched. She was well-rested for the first time since she had met him. Her increasingly naughty dreams had often kept her awake for hours, just staring at the ceiling dotted with butterflies she had painted with her father eons ago. Last night, however, had been blessedly dream-free. 

‘Probably because I had the guy right there.’ She wondered just *when* he’d worked up the balls to creep up behind her like that. 

Not that she was complaining. Totally. 

Stretching once more, she got up and picked out clothes, jeans and a t-shirt; she needed to shave her legs—and changed in the walk-in closet. When she emerged, John was standing a tad awkwardly in the middle of her room, clad now in the band tee and pants he’d worn the night before, and she was relieved she’d decided to change in the closet. 

John’s hand rose to scratch at the back of his neck. “Um…breakfast?”

Claire expelled a breath of relief and nodded. It was nice to know that she wasn’t the only one who was having a problem saying goodbye this morning. 

Outside, John climbed astride his idling Harley. Claire quirked a red eyebrow and stared down at the thing that had somehow managed to not kill her last time. “John! Did you drive this here last night with a *head wound?”

Down went his visor with a clack. “…maybe.” 

Claire crossed her arms over her t-shirt. “John Don’tyou know how dangerous that is?!” 

He sighed and passed her the other helmet. “If I promise to never do it again, pinky swear, will you stop lecturing me?”

Rolling her eyes, she took the helmet and plopped it on her head, then climbed on behind him. With a roar of the engine, they were off—and Claire began screaming again. Fortunately, it didn’t last the entire ride this time. 

She quite enjoyed pressing herself against his back without the added layer of his jacket, though. 

At Peggy Sue’s, which was quickly becoming the whole group’s go-to place, Claire ordered the pecan pancakes—they had really good pancakes here—and John the waffles with a side of bacon off the children’s menu; his waffles came served with a rendition of a clown face in whipped cream and blueberries. He was obviously older than twelve, not fit for the children’s menu, but their waitress, Peggy Sue herself, let it slide. She was beginning to like John. The woman let him get away with anything. Not just ordering off the kids’ menu, but rearranging the jams, playing raucous metal music over their table’s jukebox, pilfering a fork or two. Everything. 

“Pecan pancakes ‘for you,” Peggy Sue trilled whilst she set the porcelain plate before Claire. “And Clownin’ Around Waffles for you.” 

John grinned up at the burly redheaded woman, clutching silver eating utensils in his fist. “Thanks, Peggy Sue. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!”

Peggy Sue chuckled and patted the top of John’s head with affection. “Eat up, you two! Two teenagers need their big, strong breakfasts! ‘Sides, it’s Sunday, and we’re closin’ early.” 

Claire smiled up at her as she bounced away in her retro chic waitress’s uniform. 

They ate their meals in respective silence for a few minutes. Though Claire loved her some pancakes, she found that she couldn’t concentrate on her breakfast, not at all; she barely tasted anything. Hardly having eaten a single pancake, she watched whilst John consumed his clown-y waffles with a vigor that was almost impressive. ‘Guy can challenge Andy—at least with food.’ Not so much in the physicality department. 

She laughed when a glob of whipped cream landed on the corner of his mouth. “You have some…” Leaning over the table, she blotted away the offending white cream with a paper napkin. 

“Awww,” he groaned, touching the now clean corner. “Maybe I was savin’ that for later, Cherry, think of that?”

“Pardon me for cleaning up your mess,” she scoffed. 

He dug into his waffles again, though with increasing decreased gusto. 

After a minute, John stopped altogether, placing his utensils down on either side of his plate, a sort of resigned look on his face. Claire pursed her lips, knowing what was coming. “We should talk.” 

And there it was. Claire nodded and leaned back in her seat.

**  
Since Brian was still enrolled at Shermer and under the “care” of Dr. Hashimoto, he still had to attend those group therapy sessions. And he hated every single one of them. 

He hated Group Therapist Emily and her touchy-feely nonsense. He hated the Poor Little Rich Girls and Boys with their non-issues that populated the group. Most of all, he hated the fact that the sessions took place in his family’s church’s basement. All of the church’s old iconography was housed down here, and he felt weird being around all those paintings of Jesus on the cross. Staring at him. Judging him. Like he was doing something illicit. 

Alas, he had to go or else Dr. Hashimoto would write him up, and he’d get more detentions. Kinda crazy that temporary suicidal ideation would garner a detention in the first place, but that was Vernon for you. Guy was more upset about the locker he’d have to replace and not the fact that one of his students considered shooting himself. 

Brian slumped into the musty church basement, the accustomed sights and smells of the place almost comforting in a way. The banal beige walls. The churning ceiling fan. The smell of mildew and yellowing Bible pages. 

Those damn paintings on the walls. All depicting the Savior in various points of view. All with glaring, piercing eyes. And there was nowhere Brian could sit to avoid that piecing glare; the paintings were on every wall of this room. 

Staring. Judging. Staring. Judging. 

Shivering, although it was ninety outside, Brian claimed a foldout chair facing away from the painting that creeped him out the most—a toe to tip full-scale of the Messiah being crucified. 

The guy to his left—the same idiot who’d once lamented the loss of his favorite car-leaned in to Brian to whisper in his ear. In his hands, he loosely clutched a grilled cheese; he was still eating his lunch. “Emily’s kinda hot, right?”

As the only other guy here, the rich douchebag—Zach, if he recalled correctly—had taken it upon himself to use Brian as a “boys will be boys” echo chamber. It…was not working as well as he had hoped. 

Automatically, Brian gazed across at the therapist. Long brown hair. Ankle-length, ruffled brown skirt. Ill-fitting black blouse. Talked a lot about “natural products”. Whatever, definitely kinda hippie. 

To Zach in his red and gold letterman’s jacket and grilled cheese, Brian shrugged. One “thing going for the BMOC, he didn’t seem to care that Brian was a Brain. “She’s all right, I guess.” 

Zach bit a large chunk off his sandwich. “I’d totally do that, bro. I’d take her out on the town first. That’s if I had my damn car.” 

Brian wanted to punch him in the face. 

As he was worse than Bender at fighting, he refrained. 

Emily clapped her hands. “Group! Attention, everyone! Okay, we left off with Alicia. Alicia, I believe you were finished regaling us with your story?”

Something about a sale she’d missed. Alicia opened her mouth and raised one index finger, as though she had more to add, but Emily went on. “Good. Let’s hear from someone who doesn’t participate as much. Um, Brian? How has your summer been so far?”  
Brian shifted in discomfort. Though he attended these sessions regularly as was ordained, he opted not to participate much. He felt odd disclosing why he was here to all these people he didn’t know, in his family’s church’s basement, when everyone else was prattling on about losing a volleyball game and not finding the right pair of shoes. “…it’s been all right...”

“Would you elaborate?” Emily folded her hands in her lap. Calm smile forever imprinted on her face. 

Could he tell the group about the Breakfast Club? None of them went to Shermer, would it get back to them somehow? Brian had to admit, he was growing increasingly weary of having to invent situations that “proved” he did not actually know his friends. It hadn’t bothered him before but…. 

Brian ran a hand through his puffy blond hair. “W—well, I, um, have these f—four friends…” 

Emily leaned closer to the middle of the circle in her foldout chair. “Yes?”

He sighed. Might as well. Brian glanced askance at Zach, whose colors and giant N depicted on his jacket confirmed that he was a student at New Trier, Shermer’s main rival. He wouldn’t mention names. “And, um, th—they come from, er, all walks of life. Different gr—groups, you know? And, um, m—my other friends, th—they don’t know that they exist. I keep lying to th—them.” 

Emily slowly nodded. “So, you’re saying that you have these friends you haven’t admitted out loud are your actual friends?” 

Brian paused, then nodded. He supposed that was as accurate as it came. 

The therapist continued. “And you haven’t been seen in public with any of them? Your other friends don’t even know about them?”

Another pause, then another tentative nod. That was pretty much the situation. 

To Emily’s left, tall, blonde, braces-wearing Katelyn scoffed. “How can you have friends in secret? Sounds like a bunch of assholes to me.”

Instantly, Brian’s ire rose. *No one* insulted his friends. “They’re not!”

Katelyn was looking at her blue-tipped nails. “If they refuse to admit that you’re their friend, they are. And if *you* keep lying to your other friends, you’re kind of the asshole, too.”

Brian’s fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. How dare this girl?! “Hey!”

Beside him, Zach finished his grilled cheese. “She’s kinda right, bro,” he opined through a mouthful of bread and cheese. “No offense.” 

Alicia nodded her agreement. “They almost sound like they’re ashamed of you. And that’s not cool.”

Redheaded Elizabeth concurred. “You have to hide them from your other friends. That’s not okay…” 

Katelyn finally glanced up from her nails. “See? It’s not just me. Brian, right?”

Cautious, Brian bobbed his head. He was not sure what to make of this Katelyn. “Yeah.” 

“Friends are not ashamed of friends.” 

*Were* they ashamed of him? He’d never thought so, not since March and Claire’s assertion in detention that they wouldn’t be friends on Monday, but he pondered. Would they *ever* acknowledge him in the halls? In front of their own groups of friends? Or would he forever remain a dirty, little secret? Like something to be shoved in the back of a Victorian-era Disappointments Room? 

Brian sat back in his chair. 

Now, he had a lot to think about.  
**

It took a minute for Allison to remember where she was when she woke up the following morning. Her accustomed high-ceiling with its crisscross beams and her burgundy painted walls had been replaced with stark, Spartan white ceiling tiles and gray panels. She was momentarily confused. 

Until she felt a pair of warm arms settle around her torso, and she smiled lazily. 

Last night hadn’t been planned. How could it have? Andy had called her up spontaneously. And boy, had they taken a lot of risks. Not *those * kind of risks—hadn’t all her health classes instilled in her the importance of protection?—but risks besides. They risked Andy’s parents coming home and walking in on them. They risked his very present *brothers* walking in on them. Not to mention they were supposed to be *watching* the boys. 

She also hadn’t called her parents or anything. Not that it would matter; it was likely enough that neither Joseph or Lenore even knew that she was missing from her room. 

For the life of her, Allison couldn’t muster up the appropriate guilt. She did clamber out of her slumbering boyfriend’s arms and, unabashedly naked save for the pair of underwear she picked up off the floor, peeked out Andy’s bedroom door. 

“I already checked” came a distinct, sleep-roughened voice from behind her. Allison turned on her heel. “Still asleep, right in the middle of the living room. I swear those idiots can sleep anywhere.” 

Grinning, Ally shut the slightly ajar door. And crossed her arms over her very bare chest. “I’ll take them up to Sears Tower one of these days. You haven’t lived until you’ve slept on the roof of the tallest building in the world!” 

Up went one of Andy’s blond brows—the ones that matched his adorably mussed blond hair. “And you’d know that…how?”

Ally’s grin grew. Andy merely chuckled and opened his arms for her return. 

She gladly obliged.

As Andy’s golden arms wrapped around her middle and she felt his chin rest against her shoulder, Allison considered. She had been a virgin up until, well, last night, of course; hadn’t she admitted as such that day in detention? Eh, after dropping a bomb about having an affair with her psychiatrist—which, ew!; dude was old enough to be her father. 

She had told them that she would do it, though. “If you love someone it’s okay.” And she kinda did love Andy. A little. 

Okay, more than a little. 

The notion that her elitist parents had scared him off, as ridiculous an idea as he claimed it to bee, had so freaked her out that she, temporarily, started acting quite unlike herself. She couldn’t paint, she couldn’t sketch; whenever she’d lift a pencil to her easel or sketchpad, it would freeze in mid-air. On dates, Ally would step outside herself, kind of, outside of her comfort zone, and engage Andy in some PDA she wasn’t entirely comfortable with and even started talking and acting lke *Claire*! Voice rising in octave. Playing with her hair. Wearing *pastels*! Ugh!

Luckily, Andy, her Andy, had seen right through her. He knew her. After only a few scant months, he knew her. The whole Conventional Gil schtick…it wasn’t Allison. Not the Allison he knew. Not the Allison he was crazy about. 

Those words had sealed it for he. He *was* going to be her First. It was just a question of when. 

It certainly hadn’t been her plan for that First Night to be while they were sitting for Andy’s younger brothers and watching “The Godfather”. It wasn’t exactly an amorous film. 

Hey, whatever worked!

“What are you thinking about?” Andy rumbled in her ear. He’d already asked the pertinent questions last night—“Are you okay?” “Did I hurt you?” Blah, blah, blah. It was sweet that he was worried for her, of course, and yeah, it’d hurt, but wasn’t it supposed to? The numb tingling between her thighs was definitely a pleasant one. 

Allison’s cat-grin was sanguine. “Just you.”

“Oh, really?” She laughed as he rolled on top of her, wrapping her naked arms around his neck. 

Andy bent to kiss her and they both cringed. “Maybe we should brush our teeth first?”

Ally eagerly nodded. “Good idea. Have an extra?”  
**   
John really loved waffles. 

And bacon. Fried eggs. Hash-browns. He had a whole frigging gourmet breakfast here when all he usually got was a halfhearted bowl of dry cereal or—if he was lucky, and had the extra cash—an Egg McMuffin on the way to school. 

Waffles. Eggs. Bacon. Hash. His favorite song playing on the jukebox. A small group of three hotties having just walked through the door. 

But John barely paid them a passing glance. One of ‘em was giving him The Eye, he could feel it, yet he scarcely noticed. 

Everything else—the hotties, the song, even the food—came in second to the Princess seated across from him. 

Claire bit her lower lip, and his pants grew too tight. Always happened when she did that. Damn woman, probably doing it on purpose just to fuck him up! Wasn’t that always the way?

‘Pfft. Women.’ 

All the times the group had come here and he’d never realized how, well, out of place Queenie looked. Peggy Sue’s had great food, but it was still a corner diner, a greasy spoon, a glorified trailer in the middle of a parking lot. Claire in her designer duds and expertly quaffed hair did not belong in as place like this. She should’ve been dining in the world’s finest eateries. Some fancy-schmancy place in Chicago. Or Paris. 

And a girl like her should’ve been sitting across from some “GQ” model with a foreign name. 

Yet, here she was. At the greasy spoon. With him. Willingly. 

More than that, she had let him crash in her bedroom last night. 

Unbe-fucking-lievable. But real. *She* was real. 

John felt as if he was looking at Claire for the first time. It was the same sensation he’d experienced standing with her on the old water tower watching the fireworks. 

Not a *bad* sensation, by any stretch—on the contrary, it gave him a warm feeling just below his shoulder—but definitely an unfamiliar one. A new one. 

When John gazed at her now, he was not seeing Claire Standish, Richie Ice Princess. He was seeing the girl who had provided him a place to stay when he had none. Whose smile gave him the urge to chuckle like a dork. Who looked at *him*, in turn, like she wasn’t herself seeing just some gearhead Criminal. 

He was seeing the girl she was…behind the veneer that had been painted of her. A Princess. 

John idly played with the end of his fork and tamped down the urge to guffaw like some drunken idiot. And he was sober! 

He watched as Claire suddenly placed her utensils down on either side of her plate with a soft clang. “You wanted to talk,” she said to him, pursing those amazing lips of hers. “So talk.” 

John sighed. Yes, he’d wanted to talk. But now, in the light of day, the very same suggestion he himself had put forth was rather terrifying him. He had so many things to say, to tell her, but he didn’t know where to begin. How to start this conversation. 

He wasn’t fucking *good* at this shit. 

John ran a shaky hand through his hair. Scratched his arm. Took a deep breath. 

And developed a sudden case of the hiccups. Just as he opened his mouth. 

Across from him, Claire blinked, then broke out in laughter and signaled Peggy Sue for a glass of water. When it arrived, he drank down the cool liquid gratefully. Fucking hiccups. Before now, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had them. 

“Better?” she asked with an amused tilt of the head whilst he drank down the last drop. 

“Much,” he replied. That done, they lapsed into silence again. 

Damnit! Why couldn’t he just say what was on his mind?! ‘Talk, you moron!’ 

He was such a fucking idiot when it came to her. 

That must’ve been what happened…when you really liked a girl. 

Maybe even…more than liked. But John would not go there yet. The mere notion sent ice through his veins. 

Instead, he reached across the table and flexed his hand. After a second, hesitant, Claire lay her own in his, pink-painted tips and all. Damn, he’d never actually realized how disparate in size their hands were. Hers was so small in comparison to his. 

More than that, her fingers were clean. Soft. Even after consuming a messy breakfast. He was pretty sure he had a maple syrup stain in his palm. And on his shirt. 

Another deep breath. It was now or never. “Claire—“ 

But, she interrupted him. “I know.”

John’s brow furrowed. How had she known what he’d planned to say when he himself still did not? “You know?”

Claire’s answering smile was rueful, though her eyes were sad. John hated himself for putting that look in them. “You’re not the one-guy-one-girl type.”

No, he was not. Or he never had been before. The very idea of commitment made him laugh on a good day and downright horrified him otherwise. It was why he had run for the hills when Holly Grier made it evident that she wanted more than what he was willing to give. Not that he didn’t *like* Holly or anything, and boy, he was certainly attracted to her, but he didn’t *do* the boyfriend-girlfriend thing. He was John fucking Bender, and he had a Rolodex of girls in his wallet; why choose only one? 

Besides, all one had to do was look at his parents’ marriage to deduce why John was so anti-commitment. 

But now…he didn’t seem to *care* about his Rolodex of girls. Fuck him, he wasn’t even interested in the chick at the front of the diner who was staring at him beneath her lashes. 

He wanted Claire. And *only* Claire. 

And not just in a fun physical way, either. 

Heart hammering in his chest, John squeezed her hand in his to garner her attention as she stared down at the chrome tabletop. “No. But maybe I…want to be. Now.”

That caused Claire to perk her head up and, mouth forming a perfect O—not the O-face he wanted to give her, exactly, but it would do for now—met his eyes. 

He exhaled deeply and went on. “Claire, listen. I know I’m not good enough. For you. Okay? No, wait, hear me out,” he added quickly before she could protest. “I’m just some…working-class schlub, as my Yiddish grandfather would say.” That O-face slackened, lips growing into an amused smirk. “I’m just barely on the plus-side of broke. I have no…nothing to offer you, and I know that. I mean, I get it. I can’t take you to fancy restaurants or buy you another pair of diamond earrings or—or surprise you with some amazing vacation but—“ 

“John,” she interrupted him, still wearing that little smirk. She shook her red head. “I never *wanted* any of that. I’ve *had* all that.”

Again, John was perplexed. “Then…what is it you want?”

She sighed, almost seeming exasperated. Affectionately so? But still exasperated. “John. I’ve only ever wanted *you*. Just you. As you are.”

She may as well have spontaneously morphed into Chicken Little and informed him that the sky was falling for how taken aback he was. 

What the *hell* would a girl like her want with a guy like him?

John only noticed he had been running the pad of his thumb over the back of her hand when he abruptly stopped. “But…*why*?!”

Again, Claire looked exasperated, annoyed. She laughed, rolled her eyes, and sifted her fingers through her hair. “There are so many reasons…” 

“Name one.” John was momentarily brought back to Saturday detention in March, though then he’d been pestering Brainiac to admit he’d never gotten laid. And now he was demanding Claire Standish confess why she wanted *him* of all people. 

Did that make him a jackass? 

Well, of course it did! John Bender *was* a jackass, even to his own detriment. He couldn’t seem to help himself. 

Her hand in his flipped over. Palm to palm. Her hand looked even smaller now. “When…when you look at me…do you see Claire Standish, Richard Standish’s daughter? A trophy? A pretty thing to cart around on your elbow at dinner parties?”

Claire’s voice had been so small just then, so not like her own confident tone, that John was briefly surprised silent. When he did find his voice, the answer was obvious to him. “No,” he said with clear confusion. “No. I never have. You’re…you’re *you*, Claire. You’re not just a trophy to cart around at dinner parties. Not that I go to dinner parties.”

She laughed, though the sound was remarkably fraught to his ears. Fraught with sadness, fraught with tension, fraught with uncertainty. “There’s one of your reasons.” 

He saw her. Yes, he saw her. But he’d also… “But, Claire. I hurt you. I made you cry! I—“

Leaning over the table a bit, Claire pressed one index finger against his lips. Told him to shut up. Removed the finger. And kissed him. 

And gawl damn, if he didn’t feel that kiss to his very core.   
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Sing it with me. "Don't you want me, babayyyyyy. Don't you want me, OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHH." I swear, that's in so many GD 80s movies. So many.
> 
> Note 2: Ah, that part in the beginning stages of a developing relationship when you're not sure what will freak him out or what is too clingy or not clingy enough or...and being a teenager makes it worse. I...do not miss those days. So long ago now. Get off my lawn!
> 
> Note 3: John has clown fear...unless said clown is made of something he could eat. 
> 
> Note 4: Lol the eighties, man. Sure, give the kid who was contemplating suicide a Saturday. He ruined a locker, that's the most important thing! *shakes fist* That mentality would not fly today. Hell, it wouldn't have flied a decade later, but in the eighties, everrrrrrrythang was okay! A little casual racism, a little sexual assault, come one, come all! It's the Decade of Yes! More to the point, if the movie were made today, all one of the Club would need to do is record Vernon on their phone and it'd be on Twitter in seconds. Vernon would be fired before he could say "Put that phone down!"
> 
> Note 5: lol The Godfather is only an amorous movie if organized crime and public shootouts turn you on. In which case, no judgment. Claire's inexplicable love of war movies comes from me lol I love that stuff. They are my go-to date movie. I just like watching shit EXPLODE, I can't help myself. My favorite is "Band of Brothers" which I know is more of a limited series. I've seen it so many times. I wish I could reference it here but the timelines don't match up; it came out just before 9/11 in 2001. 
> 
> Note 6: Like Emma Roberts in "Holidate", I think people kissing each other right when they wake up in movies and TV shows is gross. Hello, morning breath!


	18. Chapter 13: Out of Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Not Yet NYE! I hope everyone had a good holiday, regardless of what you celebrate! I'm Jewish so it was Hanukkah for me lol Which kinda pales in comparison to Christmas, I won't lie. It's like the grew Lewis Black said--"Christmas is great, Hanukkah SUCKS!" Especially when you're older. As a kid I got two presents a night for eight days. As an adult, I get Amazon gift cards lol. "I don't know what she likes, have some cash." 
> 
> Chapter explanation: John is out of touch in all of the Standish grandeur.

**

Chapter 13: Out of Touch

Claire could not have been more surprised if a tree suddenly grew out of her butt.

She didn’t entirely know why, though; this *was* her parents’ house. It was so big, however, she could usually get away with murder—probably literally, if given the chance. Not that she would ever try! She didn’t want to get blood all over her clothes, thanks. 

There her father stood, framed in the light of the front foyer, hands braced against either side of the doorjamb. Looking as he always did in his sharply pleated belted slacks and a tucked-in white polo from Lacoste. She could determine the little gator logo in the corner. His red hair, almost the exact same shade as hers, shone brightly in the false light. Today, Richard Standish was sans suit merely due to it being a lazy Sunday; on workdays, he was suited up from tip to toe. 

Of course, lazy Sunday apparel for Richard Standish still included designer everything. He even wore one of his trademark Burberry scarves around his neck—this one cotton to appear more seasonal. Her father may have been a bigger clotheshorse than even she was. 

Locked in John’s equally shocked embrace, she met his widened eyes for a second before turning back to her father and smiling an awkward beam. Teeth and all. “Daddy! Um…I didn’t expect you home tonight.”

Richard Standish quirked one red eyebrow, a knowing grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. That…didn’t make Claire feel more uncomfortable or anything. “Why not? It’s my house? Or did you forget, Princess?”

Claire upped the wattage. If there was one thing she knew, it was how to make her father eat out of the palm of her hand. As his only daughter, his youngest, she was the apple of his eye. She could do no wrong, not to him, she knew that. Sixteen years’ experience doing wrong with no repercussions talking. “I just, um, thought you and Mother were eating at La Madeleine tonight.”

Her father shrugged. He had picked up the habit of the old Gallic shrug whilst on business in Paris. “Eh, your mother wasn’t feeling very well, so we stayed in.”

“Your mother wasn’t feeling very well” was code in her family for “Nora’s hung over again”. Claire cringed. She hated to admit it but John had been right on the money when he labeled her mother a drunk that day in detention. Hell, she even had a vacation house in the Caribbean—the Bahamas, to be exact. Nassau. A very posh neighborhood in Nassau. She escaped there whenever she and her husband were fighting. Which was often. 

Richard nodded sagely, confirming her supposition. Her father rarely sugarcoated things from either of his children. “No big deal. Chef Frankie’s making a stew. Hey! I know you!” He pointed to John purposely, and Claire tensed. She felt John tense, too. “Detention Guy! Punk kid who kissed my daughter right in front of my car, right?”

If anything, John went even more rigid. Claire’s father laughed and smacked his bicep with his surprisingly big hand. John stumbled a few paces. “I’m just fuckin’ with ya, kid. It’s the 80s, lighten up! Anyway, I’ve been wanting to meet the guy my daughter’s been spending so much time with. And don’t tell me you were just off with Benny, Claire.” Richard wagged a finger in her face before Claire could deny, deny, deny. “Your, ah, ‘friend’ called here a few times asking where the heckfire you were because you’re ‘totally not around these days’. So, I did a little detective work. Called all your other friends. The Luder sisters. Vanessa Parker. Amanda Jones. None of ‘em had seen you much all summer…but Sloane Peterson and Megan Hicks had.” ‘Shit.’ Since their day early in the month at the mall, Claire had basically broken her time between John and Sloane and Megan. They had definitely seen more of her than Benny, that was for sure. “Megan Hicks told me nada. But that Sloane Peterson…she can’t handle tension; she crumbles like a cookie. Spilled her guts. Said something about ‘Claire’s new guy’. Well, I had to see that for myself! I rarely get to meet ‘Claire’s guys’. Least not the ones I didn’t set her up with myself.”

That was true. Richard knew Eric Fielding, but only because his courtship with Claire had been a political move. Stan Gable, her other recent ex, he had no idea about. On purpose. Her father never would’ve been cool with her dating a college guy. 

John emitted some odd croak-laugh as he met her father’s eyes, and Claire, now, had to prevent herself from laughing. If only he could read minds. ‘Relax. I got this.’ “That’s because you’d embarrass the heck out of me, Daddy! Break out the picture albums. Ones of me as a baby with my butt in the air. Start telling him stories from my childhood…” 

Richard Standish crossed his arms and frowned. “I would not!”

Claire gasped, affronted. “You *so* would! You did all that with Tom Langdon!”

*That* caught John’s attention. He craned his neck to regard her. “Who’s Tom Langdon?” 

While her father guffawed, she explained. “You know. He’s on the soccer team, I think.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Is he that idiot who wrapped toilet paper around his head and called himself The Mummy?”

“That’s him.”

“…you have questionable taste, Claire.”

Claire’s mouth formed a straight line. Yes, she did. She truly, truly did. 

Her father clapped his hands. “Okay, kids! Come on in. There’s enough stew for everyone. I know because Chef Frankie is practically mixing it in a witch’s pot. Come one, come all! Come, come. Josh is home, too, Princess.” He added this last in Claire’s ear where they stood in the foyer. 

Claire’s eyes lit up; she could feel it. She didn’t see much of her brother these days. “He is?”

“Must’ve got tired of Instant Lunch and Hot Pockets at that Bachelor Pad of his.”

‘Right. “Bachelor” Pad.’ Her brother was definitely that! He hadn’t confirmed it to her or anything, but Claire highly suspected that her brother, eh, was going to *remain* a bachelor. 

In the parlor, John gawked, performing a literal circle with his neck still craned up at the ceiling—on which was painted a Michelangelo-esque fresco encircling a Queen Anne chandelier her mother had purchased in England. In hindsight, the amazing luxury she was accustomed to as a Standish would blind-side most people, even those in her tax bracket. John was definitely outside of that tax bracket. She had grown up with all this; the decadence rarely occurred to her. Tonight, Claire was actually kind of embarrassed to have him see all of this…stuff. The Queen Anne chandelier. The fresco. The marbleized fireplace imported from Milan. Henry VIII’s sword, which her father had won at auction. 

Lord, even the floors were intricate. Fashioned of a mix of marble, terra cotta, and genuine gold. She was glad that he was not touring the ballroom. 

Claire took her usual seat at the enormous dining room table. Her brother was across from her, as usual, barely seen above the flickering sterling silver candelabra in the center. John hesitantly claimed the seat beside hers. To Josh, he merely nodded in greeting, and her brother returned the gesture. Male acknowledgement, Claire thought with a roll of the eyes. 

Her mother trooped down the stairs a moment later, looking quite “unwell”. Bags under her eyes. Uncombed bush of blonde hair. Melting makeup. White suit askew. Shoeless. 

Nora Standish halted before she reached the table, tired eyes zeroing in on John. “Who the hell are you?” she slurred drunkenly, slipping in her silk stockings. 

Before he could answer, Claire’s father said, “Nora, this is the boy Claire’s been seeing. Remember, I mentioned that I suspected.”

Her mother paused, martini glass in hand; the contents sloshed over the side as she swung her arm in a wide arc. And laughed. “*You*?! What happened to Eric Fielding?”

A muscle in Claire’s jaw worked. She had expected this. She knew her mother. “Mother, Eric and I broke up months ago. Remember?”

Nora scoffed. “I don’t understand why; he was perfect, darling! Handsome and rich. Something tells me you’re not rich.” As she gestured to John with the martini glass, more clear liquid sloshed over the rim.

John was inspecting his goblet. Cut crystal and shiny enough to glimpse your reflection in. A grin was pulling at the corners of his mouth. Sigh. Her mother was something else, and he knew it. “Only in friendship, ma’am!” he answered in a condescending tone usually reserved for Vernon. 

Claire tried not to laugh. Really, she did. 

Nora huffed. Loudly. “Am I being punished for some perceived slight, Claire? Oh, am I on ‘Candid Camera’? Where’s the host; I got you!”

John guffawed as her father shook his head. Claire glared at her mother and her entire lack of tact. “No, Mother, you’re not. If you’re going to sit, sit. Please.” 

Nora Standish eyed John noticeably and warily whilst she slowly lowered her tired body into her usual seat. Chef Francesco emerged from the enormous kitchen brandishing plates of the appetizer—miniature quiches and a side salad. 

John poked at one of his quiches with his fork. “...is this a mini pizza bagel?”

Before Claire could answer, Nora threw back her head and cackled. Not with John. At John. Once more, Claire threw a glower across the table at her mother, then turned to him. “It’s Quiche Lorraine.” 

John gawked at her as if she had just told him that he had alien eggs before him. 

Claire laughed, much in the same way she had while explaining what sushi was in detention. “Eggs, bacon, some vegetables...” 

He stared at the little circle for another second, shrugged, and popped the whole thing in his mouth. “…I like pizza bagels better.”

Nora sloshed her drink. “You would. Peasant.” 

Claire, once again, ignored her mother. It was habit by now, to disregard most of what she said. “Try the salad.”

John did so. And cringed. “Rabbit food. What the hell is this dressing?” *Poke, poke* went the fork at the remaining lettuce. 

“Balsamic.”

“Tastes like I just gargled vinegar.”

Unexpectedly, it was her father that cackled this time. Beating the end of the table where he sat at the head. Josh, too, grinned at his father’s antics. “Told you all. I hate this dressing. I wanted Thousand island, but no one listens to me.”

John nodded as though in agreement. “Thousand Island is good on pastrami.” 

“Katzman’s Deli makes a good pastrami. And Reuben.” 

Claire’s…whatever…grinned, eyes alighting. He got on with her father, f not her mother (not that most people did). That was something, right? Claire could not recall the last guy she brought home Richard actually liked. Including any of the boys he’d set her up with. “I love Katzman’s! They have great pickles. And their matzo ball soup.” 

Richard Standish raised his fork to make a point; she knew her father’s mannerisms. “That’s because it’s his grandma’s recipe. The Jewish grandma—she knows her matzo ball soup.”

“I know. I have one myself. Lives down in Knoxville. She sends me a quart every year on my birthday.” 

That Claire hadn’t known. ‘That’s kinda…heartwarming.’ That John Bender had a grandmother in Tennessee who sent him homemade matzo ball soup every year. She was actually rather jealous. Neither of her grandmothers ever sent her soup—just cash.

Claire’s ridiculous mother stabbed at her side salad. “Of course you do. Not rich. Jewish relatives. Anything else you’d care to impart?” 

Claire about threw the contents of her goblet in Nora’s face. “Mother! That is completely inappropriate!” 

John himself just leaned back in his chair, head pillowed by his palm, and mock-nodded sagely. “Well, ma’am, I am also fond of the marijuana. And ride a motorcycle. I know, I know. You’re shocked.”

Josh smirked down at his plate. Richard Standish guffawed. Only her mother remained stuck still like she had sucked on a lemon. “You will have *no more* contact with my daughter!”

Claire’s mouth dropped open. Never in all the boys she’d brought home had Nora demanded one of them leave her side forever. Not that she’d ever introduced her to someone like John. “Mother! That is *my* decision!”

Nora glared at her over the table and the flickering candelabra. “It is not! You are still a minor, and what I say goes!”

Fortunately, before Claire could declare outright war against her parent, Richard cleared his throat and slowly rose from his seat. “Actually, Nora, as head of this household and its sole breadwinner, what *I* say goes. And I say thus: Claire can date whoever she wants, provided he is around her age. And hasn’t been convicted of any felonies.” 

At this, her mother glowered at John with a quirked, expertly waxed eyebrow, as if expecting him to confirm that he had, in fact, been convicted of a felony or two. Which he had not. And even if he had, she doubted that he’d confirm it. Not to her mother.

“This is absurd,” Nora moaned, standing on wobbly legs. “I’m going to lie down. I feel another headache coming on.”

“Might wanna take some coffee for that ‘headache’ of yours,” John cracked, perfectly at ease with Claire’s mother’s elitism. He had probably expected some pushback, coming into the Standish abode. “It’ll cure what ails ya.”

Nora glared fiercely at him over her shoulder. John just laughed. Josh ambled up from his own chair and quickly took their mother by her biceps. “Yes, Mom, *please* go lie down. I don’t want you to get sick.” 

Her brother had always been the mediator of the family

Claire smirked as Chef Francesco brought out their bowls of stew.

**  
Allison did not particularly want to meet Andy’s father. 

Or, at all, really.

After everything she knew of the guy, everything her boyfriend had told her about him, she truly had no desire to meet him. She liked Carol Clark fine, she was a nice lady; Ally had no idea how or why she’d come to fall n love with a man like Tim Clark in the first place, but that wasn’t her business. 

But now it appeared she had no choice. She’d been caught literally with her pants down. ‘Ugh, how mortifying.’ Her only saving grace? That it hadn’t been Lenore. Ally could see the horrible situation now—her mother would order Andy out of her house with only his boxers on. And then call the cops. 

Allison, now clothed in the black dress and matching leggings she’d worn to the house the other night, hair a bird’s nest, walked silently beside Andy into the kitchen. He, too, looked delightfully rumpled, with his sweats all askew and his hair sticking up. His father would know right away what they’d been up to.

And indeed, he graying man in the Shermer High Wrestling sweatshirt at the kitchen table grinned and winked at Andy. Beside her, he only rolled his eyes and rested a hand against Allison’s back.

“Ah, I finally meet the famous Allison,” Tim Clark crowed as he rose to a standing position. He took Ally’s proffered hand in his much bigger one. She watched him look her up and down, a brief frown marring his forehead. Not that she expected much less. She was not Andy’s usual “type”. “Huh. You’re an artist?”

Allison nodded. “Yes, sir. Sketches, mostly, but I can paint, too.”

Tim Clark bobbed his head, though his facial expression was a mite confused. “Can ya paint me?” he guffawed, shifting in his sneakers. 

Allison cocked her head to the side. “Probably. I painted Andy.”

Up went one gray bushy brow. “Really.” It was a statement, not a question.

A nod. “Really.”

Tim Clark cleared his throat. The sound was phlegmy and unhealthy. “Well. Andrew, Allison here certainly isn’t Stacy Luder…”

‘You figured that out just by looking at me, did ya?’ 

However, Andy, her beloved Andy, merely smirked. “I know. And I like that about her.”

Allison experienced a warmth in her chest, right beneath her shoulder. 

Tim grunted, and they all sat down to eat. There was a sound of thundering footsteps as the remaining Clark brothers raced down the steps and into the kitchen. Followed by the squeaking of chair legs against tile. 

Kyle Clark gripped his eating utensils in both hands. Fork in left; knife in right. “Me hungry! Kyle. Is. Hungry!”

“Yeah, yeah!” Jack Clark agreed, parroting his younger brother. “Jack is hungry, too!” 

Carol Clark sighed and placed dishes of spaghetti with her homemade sauce in front of them. Kyle and Jack dove right in. 

“I’ll help,” Ally offered the eternally beleaguered Carol. She had the graveyard shift tonight. 

As Allison wandered toward the oven to scoop out more spaghetti, Carol sighed in relief. “Oh, thank you, Allison! My, where are you the rest of the time?”

Allison grinned and, balancing three plates—one in each hand and one on top of her head—wandered back into the dining area of the kitchen. She placed plates before a smiling Andy, a blank-faced Tim, and another at her own setting. Carol quickly emerged carrying her own plate and sank into her seat eagerly. 

Ally asked to be excused for a moment, dashed upstairs to retrieve her very large bag, and returned to her seat at the table. There, she pulled from the seemingly bottomless pit of stuff a glass bottle of maple syrup. Tongue pointing out, she quickly soaked the spaghetti and sauce with the brown syrup. Such a pretty color. 

All—or most—utensils scraping against porcelain stopped. Tim Clark, especially, was staring at Allison as though she were an alien, a blot of red sauce on the corner of his mouth. Andy, however, remained stoic and kept eating. Nothing could distract Andrew Clark when he had a full plate of food at his disposal. Nothing except a bunch of people staring at him. 

Tim Clark nodded at Allison’s syrupy plate. “Uh, it’s spaghetti.”

“Yep!” she chirped with her mouth full. “I always put maple syrup on spaghetti!” 

Kyle, Jack, and even two-year-old Travis all looked at each other and simultaneously belted “Gross!” before returning to their plates. 

The Clark “forever hungry” gene was inheritable, it seemed. 

Andy continued to shovel saucy noodles into his pie-hole. 

Carol cleared her throat and tentatively returned to her dish. “I say, let Allison eat what she wants. It’s *her* dinner, after all…” 

Tim Clark was still staring at her. “You, uh, carry maple syrup in your bag?”

Allison nodded. “You never know when you’ll need it!”

Andy kept eating, but grinned around his mouthful of noodles. 

Tim only returned to his plate after his wife kicked him in the shin.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Nora gets more blunt the more she drinks 
> 
> Note 2: Katzman's is based on Katz Deli in New York, the famous landmark. In 80s terms, it's where Meg Ryan famously faked it to prove to Billy Crystal that she could in "When Harry Met Sally". It's been featured in other movies since then.
> 
> Note 3: There is no matzo ball soup like a Jewish grandmother's, I'm telling ya. If you're never tried some, get on that now. I grew up with that shit, it is good shit. I hate matzo dry, but the soup is delicious.
> 
> Note 4: John doesn't seem the type to be much bothered by classism. He probably gets it often.
> 
> Note 5: As Xmas just passed, of course I'd make a Christmas movie ref. Christmas Vacation would have been more timely but whenever I watch Elf, I always think "Allison would SO do that!"


	19. 48 Hrs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness. "Life, uh, finds a way."-Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park voice lol. Hopefully, this entry makes up for it a bit.

Three weeks. 

That was how long Brian had sat on the…situation. Summer was almost over, they were all headed back to school soon, and the whole Club seemed happy as clams. Andy had Allison. Allison had Andy…and new painting supplies. Claire had Bender, though they weren’t confirming anything, even to them. Bender had his Princess and a new place to go at night when his father was getting too...Jake. 

But what did Brian have? A new gig as Mary’s tampon and hot coco-getter. His mom yelling at him for the stupidest of infractions, like leaving a sock on the floor. Heaven forbid! But that was nothing new. A complete *lack* of girlfriend. 

Oh, he’d been out on a few more dates over the last few weeks. The names kind of blended together now, as shitty as that notion was. Marie. Jenny. Lisa. Courtney. He’d even sorta went out with Katelyn Walker, the girl from his therapy group. She could be cool, despite his initial impression of her—namely blunt rich girl. And she definitely was all that. Tactless and wealthy; she lived just across the street from Allison on Baron Drive. Her house was enormous; she had nicknamed it the Pink Palace because the abode was constructed entirely of pink sandstone, like a house out of South Beach or Hermosa. Not smack dab in the middle of Illinois. 

That was where he had largely been for the last three weeks, excepting the days he met with the Breakfast Club. Katelyn had the newest video game systems at her disposal; her father worked for Nintendo America. They’d spend hours plunked in front of her huge big screen television playing all sorts of games. He was especially fond of Mortal Kombat. 

Still, it was just another excuse to avoid his *other* set of friends—Larry, Phil, and Farmer Ted. He couldn’t help himself; only now was he realizing how, well, *stagnant* they were, how content the three boys were to remain stuck in their own rut. They never wanted to go out, to experience life, to *grow*. To move away from Dungeons and Dragons in the basement and “Star Wars” marathons in one of their bedrooms. And they looked at Brian like he was insane for wanting *more*. 

Plus, Phil would not stop talking about Andie Walsh even though he had Kristy Swann, a gorgeous blonde, who was way into him and Andie had Blaine McDonough, one of the richest and most popular guys in school. 

It was enough to drive Brian batty. 

And then there was the Breakfast Club whom he couldn’t even tell people were his friends in the first place and he didn’t know if he’d exist to them when school started back up and anyway they were all wrapped up in each other, so Brian had spent time with Katelyn at her home. Avoiding both sets of friends like the damn coward he was. 

He kind of understood what Claire had meant that day when she explained that her friends put pressure on her. He was certainly feeling the pressure now. 

On the Thursday before school started back up, he and Katelyn had been plopped in front of the TV as usual, playing video games as usual, when she suddenly and nonchalantly asked him about his friends. 

That was Katelyn for you. She didn’t beat around the bush. 

Brian shrugged as Katelyn’s avatar kicked his ass. Both of their tongues were peeking out of their mouths in concentration. “I haven’t seen much of the boys. Uh, w—we played some p—poker the other day in Larry…Larry’s basement but that’s it. A-as for the Breakfast Club, um, I—I still haven’t t—talked to them, yet.” Off Katelyn’s “what the fuck” glare, he added, “B—but I will! Um, on Saturday. Wh—when I see them.”

Katelyn nodded once, apparently satisfied. “Good. Chip me.” 

Brian passed her the yellow bag of Lay’s potato chips. He grinned as she fisted the thin, salty snack, barely mindful of her braces. He and Katelyn had been out on one official date, which had ended in awkward disaster. Katelyn tripping over a waiter carrying a large plate of glasses of punch, sending him, and the punch, sprawling on the floor. As she guffawed, Brian profusely apologized on her behalf. They fought. He called her an insensitive clod for what she’d done. She alleged that he had no sense of humor, which he totally did! Treating waitstaff like his own personal joker was not part of that sense of humor, though. 

Then and there, studying Brian’s reddened expression like he was a chemistry experiment, Katelyn laughed and decided that they were better off as friends. Which they were. They made excellent friends.

Now, it was the Saturday before senior year commenced and, as always, he was back at Peggy Sue’s with his trusted peanut butter and jelly. PB&J with the crusts cut off—it was comforting, it was nostalgic, it was his childhood in a sandwich. PB&J would never stress you the hell out. PB&J would never incessantly whine about a girl sandwich it’d never have (‘Looking at you, Phil’) all the while going out with a stunner. 

PB&J would never pretend it wasn’t his friend. 

Brian sighed and leaned back into the cheap nylon booth. Bender had just finished bragging about his new job and now, beside him, Andy had his arm around Allison as he chattered on (and on, and on) about…Brian thought it was a college football game. Directly across from him, Claire was obviously barely paying attention, side-eyeing Bender and smirking whilst he was very clearly…doing something under the table. 

And there was Brian Johnson, the Brain of their little Club, the one who had been coerced (by Claire—old habits die hard, and Brian’d always harbored one of helping out the popular people with the hope that’d it make himself popular, especially the pretty girls—into writing Vernon’s “assignment” dispensed at the start of detention…for all of them. The patsy. The virgin. The lameoid whose mother still insisted on picking out his clothing. 

What a loser he was. What the hell was he doing hanging out with Shermer’s star athlete, last year’s Spring Fling Queen, a super talented recluse, and a…Bender? 

Jeez, the guy had given him a swirly once. 

Andy was mid-sentence when Brian exploded. “…and then Greg took all of us, Ally and me and the rest of our brothers, to get gelato at this awesome Italian creamery. Have any of you guys had gelato? It’s so much better than American ice cream! Thicker and sweeter and shit. Anyway, I had this *black* gelato! I think it was sesame seed flavor? I couldn’t brush that black stain off with a Brillo pad, but boy, was it worth it! I swear, I’ll never again—“ 

Gripping his hair, the Brain suddenly rose on his Pumas, interrupting Andy’s anecdote about black gelato. “Ahhh! Shut up, shut uppppp!”

This was what happened when Brian bottled up his emotions. In detention, it had come out in the form of slapping an innocent piece of furniture and erupting in tears. At least he hadn’t stuttered. 

At once, all four heads swiveled in his direction. Andy dropped his ham sandwich to his plate with a plop. “Bri?”

Claire was looking at him with bald-faced concern on her lovely features, and Brian momentarily felt guilty. “Are you okay?”

Squaring his shoulders, a muscle ticking in his jaw, Brian vowed to not be persuaded by a pretty, pouting face or the most popular guy in the school appearing uncertain and a bit put out. Well, Brian had felt a bit put out all summer! Since he’d met them, really. “I need to know,” he bit, all but growling. His hands formed fists at his sides.

Allison spoke up this time. She looked more Allison and less Claire this afternoon in a black high-necked blouse and a long skirt. It reminded him of this portrait of Queen Victoria he’d seen in a history text. “Know what?” 

Brian’s jaw clenched. “Y—you of all p—people know w—w—what!”

‘Damn stutter. Way to undermine my point.’

Allison lifted her arms in an approximation of a shrug. “I have no idea, Bri.”

“Yeah, Big Bri,” Bender encouraged, the hand that had disappeared under their table reappearing to pillow his head as he leaned back into the booth. “Out with it. Come on, I know something’s botherin’ ya. You get all red in the face and grit your metal mouth when you’re pissed off.”

The fact that they knew him and his mannerisms so well already made him feel contrite again and fumble, but he knew this had to come out. It had to be said.

“N—no, I’m n—not okay,” he addressed Claire, then stared down at all of them. “School i---is starting up on Monday. I—I need to know…will we still be friends?”

Bender rolled his eyes while Claire leaned forward. “Of course we will!”

“’Will we be friends on Monday?’” Bender snorted. “Didn’t we already cover this? Ow!” Claire whacked him in the chest. 

“Bender has a point, as much as I hate to admit that,” Andy agreed, viciously tearing into the ham sandwich he’d abandoned earlier. “We’re here. We’re friends. *That* Monday is far behind us. *This* coming Monday…shit. I need to buy more supplies. Notebooks and pencils and rulers and crap.”

Allison squeezed her damn beau’s bicep. “I’ll take you back to the Discount Andy War-house this weekend. They have a whole ‘Welcome Back!’ aisle, now.”

That tiny motion enraged Brian further. He knew he had some anger issues, mostly care of his mother. He had to calm down or he was going to give himself an asthma attack. “That’s just it!” he cried, vaguely motioning to the mismatched pair.

Allison’s forehead wrinkled. He couldn’t blame her. He was a but perplexed, too. 

Was he angry because he wasn’t sure if they would even acknowledge him and his friendship at the start of senior year? Or because they were all coupled up and Brian was a free agent?

“You guys are all *together*, all *you guys*,” he spat without his entire consent. He loathed listening to his own voice now. “You all have, like, inside jokes and stories and shit. And I’m left in the dust with no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

Had he sounded as petty to them as he had to his own ears?

Claire and Allison traded looks across the table; the former was blushing a bit. “Well, Brian,” Claire answered, clapping her manicured hands together. New color. She must’ve just gotten that done. When had she the time for getting her nails done in between their meet-ups here at Peggy Sue’s and illicit (and possibly explicit, not that that was Brian’s business) “dates” with Bender? “We’re, um, sorry if we left you out. But some things, um, remain between us. John and me. Um, just like I’m sure it does with Ally and Andy.”

Allison shrugged and craned her neck to regard Andy beside her. “Do we have inside jokes?”

Andy’s constant chewing paused. “We have ‘The Godfather' thing.”

Allison grinned and bumped shoulders with her eternally hungry paramour. “Right. That ‘The Godfather’ is apparently an aphrodisiac.” 

The Sport returned her kind of saucy grin, and Brian didn’t even want to know. “That’s right!”

Claire’s nose furrowed in evident disgust. “Gross.”

Bender was grinning. To Claire, he wiggled his dark brows and whispered something in her ear that had her gasping and pushing at his chest. 

Brian shook his blond head. Normally, he’d find their antics funny. Now, however… ‘Hello! I *need* to know if we’ll be friends come Monday.”

Bender was still rubbing at his chest and wincing. “Fuckin’ Cherry. Fuckin’ prude.”

Again, Claire gasped. “I am no prude, dingus! I’m just not…some sort of sex-crazed exhibitionist!”

Andy swallowed his immense bite of sandwich and grinned at his girlfriend. “Reminds me of Home Depot.”

Allison looked contemplative. “That shed *hurt*. The floor was made of wood; I got splinters in my butt.” 

Brian threw down his other half of peanut butter and jelly. 

Claire furrowed her nose again. “Gross!” 

Bender smirked, hands behind his head once more. “Sounds like my kinda party!”

Andy took another bite of ham sandwich and addressed Brian without looking at him. “I don’t know, dude. Kinda sounds like you’re a little jealous.”

“Yeah,” Bender agreed, and the two boys rarely agreed on anything. “Sounds to me like someone needs a girlfriend.”

As soon as the seemingly insignificant word was out of his mouth, Bender and Claire exchanged glances then looked away from each other. It was the first time Brian had ever heard him use the G-word. Judging by the look on Claire’s face—sort of a mixture of happy and terrified—it was the first time for her, as well. 

Brian crossed his arms over his C-3P0 t-shirt. “I am *not* jealous of you guys!”

Andy was still eating whilst he conversed with him. All Brian could think about was Mercedes ordering him to never talk with his mouth full. “Not of *us* per se. You just need a—“ 

Brian, still simmering, covered his ears with his palms. “Don’t…say it.”

“—girlfriend.” 

“Or to just get laid,” Bender added, unhelpful as usual. 

“Or that,” Andy agreed, biting into his second sandwich of the night. 

Brian huffed. He did not *need* a girlfriend, he just wanted one. Nor did he need to “get laid”, as Bender had so eloquently put it. But none of this was the point he was trying to make. Yes, a lady friend would be nice, and he was absolutely *not* jealous, thank you very much! The little jokes and asides he couldn’t understand were becoming more and more frequent, and they annoyed him, that was all! 

The main point was…were they even going to acknowledge Brian’s existence when school started up again? Or would they just walk on by him? An unseen ghost. Someone they vaguely recognized from detention or possibly a class but whom didn’t matter much in the gamut of their lives? 

“What I want to know is,” Brian began, continuing to stand and loom over the rest of the group seated at their booth. Doing so gave him a confidence he didn’t really feel. “W—will you guys e—even say h—h—hi to me in the halls…or just pr—pretend I d—don’t exist?”

He further glared at Andy in particular. “A—and I don’t j—just m—mean saying hi to me and then making f—fun of m—me to the other S—Sports!”

Cringing, their own Sport ducked his head like a turtle and then mumbled a sardonic thank you to Claire for introducing Brian to that idea. 

Claire shrugged but had the decency to look a tad ashamed as Brian’s glower turned on her. “What? It wasn’t such an out-there notion! It’s not like I got it from nowhere, after all!” 

Andy’s cheeks tinged pink. Brian wondered what *that* story was. Allison pat one of those cheeks affectionately. 

Brian shoved a hand through his hair. He should’ve known that the Club would get completely off-track mere into the original thought. “S—so a—are you guys gonna pr—pretend w—we don’t know each other c—come Monday?”

Andy and Claire regarded each other over the table. Bender obnoxiously slurped some of Claire’s matzo ball soup. Allison wore an unconcerned visage and munched on a chocolate-covered potato chip. 

Claire pursed her lips. It was *her* that he was most concerned about, she who had predicted—thankfully inaccurately so—that they wouldn’t be friends when the initial Monday after detention rolled around, despite the fact that they were all friends in the library. “Of course we will!”

Andy chewed his sandwich. “We just didn’t wanna force you into anything, Bri. We know you have other friends.” 

Andy Clark and Claire Standish, two of the most revered students at school—he for his athletic prowess; she because her family was really, really rich—had been concerned about *him* and his own reputation and friends all summer. Brian allowed a smile to snake across his features. As if Larry, Phil, and Farmer Ted would cast him out because he was friends with two very popular students…and John Bender, renown in his own right, in his own crew…whom they were too scared of to make a stink. As for Allison….

Brian watched the Basketcase across the table as she dipped her grilled cheese into her cola like it was something everyone did. 

Yeah, they wouldn’t have a problem with Allison. Might need to keep some Pepto around, though. 

Smiling, Brian Johnson sat back down and took a vehement bite of his sandwich. “Y—you guys d—don’t have to worry. Um, th—they’ll love you.”

Bender snorted. “Yeah. And piss their panties when they meet me.”

Brian shrugged. He wasn’t wrong. “W—we can go a—after th—this...”

Claire gasped. Her hands instantly rose to her hair. “*Now*?! Today?!”

Another bob of the shoulders. “Wh—why not?”

“Oh, I’m all sweaty! I have to go home and change and—“ 

John wrapped a gloved arm around her. “Cherry, you look great. We’re just going to meet a bunch of dorks, not Prince Charles.”

“He’s spoken for, anyway,” Allison added unnecessarily. “I saw the royal wedding photos in ‘Life’. She’s, like, *way* too young for him.”

"I know," Bender said, surprisingly. "Ma woke me up at the crack of dawn to watch it with her. She's a huge anglophile."

Andy kissed Allison's cheek. Everything she did or said he seemed to find delightful now.

The man was in Love with a capital L. it was an amusing if adorable sight to behold. 

Brian was remiss. All right, he was jealous! Not over Allison in particular, of course. Oh, she was attractive enough, and she had a decent sense of humor, not to mention talent out the wazoo, but her habits would annoy him right quick. And her appetite left something to be desired. 

Speaking of the L word…

The way Bender was gawking at Claire when he thought she was busy filing her nails or something….ha, the burnout wouldn’t admit it out loud in a million years, Brian had spent enough time with him this summer to know this, but he was D-E-A-D. Over the moon. No going back. Head over the heels of those Doc Martens he wore. Brian would never have bet in a lifetime that John Bender would’ve fallen for Richie Claire Standish of all people but….there it was. Right in front of his face. 

‘John may as well have little hearts over his head like in a “Looney Tunes” short. When Pepe is gazing at Penelope.”

Suddenly, a cracked leather glove waved in front of his face, and Brian knew that he’d been lost in La La Land. “Yo, Brainiac. Your turn to pay.”

They took turns on the bill. Claire, as always, reached for her purse. “I can cover.”

Bender rolled his eyes. “Claire, you can cover the next NASA launch. We know. It’s Johnson’s turn.”

Claire pouted those pretty lips of hers, zippered up her purse, and sat back in the booth. “I was just being polite!”

“You were just showing off.”

“I was not!”

“Were, too!”

“I was *not*!”

Brian met Andy’s and Ally’s eyes across the table and sighed. L word or not, no one fought like Claire and John, usually over nothing of consequence. An argument over, say, toilet paper (“Which is better, one-ply or two and why is it two?”) could lead to tears and one or the other storming out in a rage. 

Brian smirked. He was glad to call these people friends. 

Andy lay his head on the table, jostling the accoutrements. Allison leaned back into the booth, stared up at the churning ceiling fan, and blew her bangs out of her face. 

“Polite, polite, polite!”

“Showoff richie, showoff richie, showoff richie!”

Claire was on her feet beside the booth now. She stomped her sandaled foot, hands on hips. “Oh! You’re such a jerk! I don’t know why I put up with you!”

John pillowed his head with his hands and rested back into the nylon booth. “Neither do I.”

“Oh!” With one more shake of the leg, Claire stomped outside, probably to the parking lot to wait for Bender to receive her. They’d endured this song and dance before. She never went far. 

Andy picked his head up from the table. “Better go get her, dude.”

John sighed. “I will, I will. Givin’ her a few minutes to stew.”

Allison lowered her head. “Why do guys *do* that? ‘Give us a minute to stew’?”

Bender shrugged. “Why do you chicks pick fights over nothin’?”

“Not my Ally.” Andy wrapped an arm around Allison proudly and hugged her to his side. Again, he kissed her cheek. “We never fight.”

Ally scratched her chin. “We had that altercation over chips once. You wanted to open the bag of sour cream and onion.”

“Right. And you said you wouldn’t kiss me for a month if I did.”

“I changed your mind.”

“We had the regular instead.”

“See?” Again went the gloved hand over the table, gesturing to the chips-agreeing couple. “She’s already changin’ ya. First, it’s no sour cream and onion. Next, she’s tellin’ ya what movies to watch and what music to listen to and, like, where to live.”

Allison looked affronted. She crossed her arms over her black t-shirt. “I’d never do that! Besides, Andy and I like most of the same stuff.”

John rolled his eyes. “That’s worse. You’re like one entity. You have no individual personalities. You’re just AndyandAlly, no spaces.”

Andy, for his part, was not taking any of this seriously, it appeared, “Yeah, whatever. Butthead Look who’s talking, JohnandClaire.”

Brian bit his lower lip and fought to keep from laughing out loud. It was difficult.

John folded his arms over his AC/DC band tee. “That’ll never happen.”

Allison guffawed disbelievingly. Andy chuckled. “Look around, man!” He opened his arms wide, vaguely gesturing for him to “look around”. “Have you taken *any* other girls out since March? No,” the Sport answered his own rhetorical question before the Criminal could. “Do you even want to? I highly doubt it. You look at Claire like she’s a goddess or something. Face it. You’re committed.”  
Leaning back, he folded his arms over his blue and silver Shermer High wrestling tee. “So, stop being a stubborn dumbass and *go after the girl*. Fuck’s sake, Bender. Sometimes, you can be amusing, but I swear, you can also be frustrating as hell. I really don’t know why Claire puts up with your ass.”

Bender opened his mouth, presumably to reply, held up one half-gloved index finger, let it wilt, flattened his lips, then wordlessly pushed out of the booth, likely to find Claire in the parking lot. Brian let his laughter roam free now.

Later, when he introduced them to Phil, Farmer Ted, and Larry, the first two about had an apoplexy; Larry knew Andy already, of course, so was pretty “chilled”. 

Phil kept stammering whenever Claire addressed him, and whispered to Brian that she *really* looked like Andie. Larry kept eyeing Bender whilst he inspected various tchotchkes in his basement, as though he was about to snatch something. 

Farmer Ted also whispered to Brian that Claire looked a lot like Samantha Baker, whose underwear he had used to “prove” to his friends that he had slept with her when he had not and who was now dating Jake Ryan. Who was a pretty good guy, in Brian’s opinion.

John fingered a Captain Kirk action figure in its original wrapping on a blue shelf where Larry kept his most prized valuables.  
There was also an original Han Solo on there, a solved Rubik’s Cube, the first Atari, a baseball signed by his favorite player, and a My Little Pony. That one was his sister’s. So he said. “This an original Kirk action figure?”

Larry scrambled up from the round table in the basement, retrieved the action figure in its packaging, and gently, reverently, replaced it on the shelf. “Yes, it is! That’s why it’s in its original packaging so don’t touch it, please! Oh, God, there’s grease on it. What’d you have for lunch, a Sloppy Joe?”

Andy scoffed. “Might as well have been. It was a burger the size of my head.”

John glared at the Sport. “Like you’re one to talk about portions, Sporto. Mr. Three Sandwiches."

Andy bobbed his shoulders. “At least I have an excuse. I need the extra calories. You, however, are just what the French call le piggee.”

“Actually, it’s cochon,” Claire pointed out helpfully. She looked pensive. “Though, in this case, I guess s’empiffrer would be more apt. The first one refers to the farm animal. The second means more ‘to pig out’.”

John gawked at her as if she was speaking, well, French, blinked, and slowly spun back to Andy. “I am not a pig! I am just a growing boy!”

“Your mommy tell you that?”

They fought, rolled around on the floor of Larry’s basement. Larry himself almost had a heart attack struggling to protect his “treasures”. And considering Bender wasn’t much with hand-to-hand—give him a knife, and he’d throw down; Brian had seen it…thankfully, on a practice dummy—the “fight” didn’t last long at all. 

At the end of the day, the three boys patted Brian on the shoulder. Phil grinned and spoke first. “Like your new friends, Bri. ‘Specially that Claire. Woof! She can buy me any day! Yow!”

Farmer Ted was next. “I agree. She looks like Sam Baker. It’s eerie. Maybe she’s her cousin. Ask her for me? Think she’d give me her underwear?”

Brian shook his head. “Not a chance in hell. Besides, Caroline w--would murder you.”

Ted appeared to consider this. “This is true. Sigh. The life of a stud.”

Finally, Larry. He looked a mite scared. “Brian, if that John Bender character snatches *any* of my things, I *will* have him murdered. I can do it. I know how to hire a hitman. And I have money saved up.”

Brian laughed. And hugged Larry to his side. “It w—wouldn’t take m—much. And I pr—promise, he’s not stealing—stealing anyth—anything. He’s actually, um, a pr—a pretty good guy.”

Larry didn’t look so sure. He shrunk a bit in his blue sweatshirt. “If you say so, Bri. Hey, bring that Katelyn girl over, I’d like to meet *her*. She sounds fun and totally not stabby.”

Then, Brian went home and picked out his outfit for school on Monday. Straightened his things. He had one more day of freedom left before the schoolbell rang again. And Vernon and Rooney reigned once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Katelyn's faceclaim would be Robin Lively in Teen Witch 
> 
> Note 2: Anyone else's schoolyear start on a random day or just mine? lol We always, without fail, began on a Thursday. Half the class just didn't bother showing up. I never question this until I went to college and my friends were like "...Thursday? The fuck for?"
> 
> Note 3: I always thought it was kinda crappy that Claire coerced Brian into writing the paper for everyone, less than 1000 words or not. I mean, come on! That was pure popular girl to geek exploitation. It's the end of the movie; they're supposed to be past that. *That* is the one part of an otherwise perfect film (except for not knowing what happens on Monday ofc) that annoys and irks, not Allison's makeover, which is obvi more about bonding and unveiling Allison. I never minded that part. It's the clear coercion that bothers me.
> 
> Note 4: Charles and Diana got hitched in July of '81 so Bender would've been a young lad of not yet fourteen lol. Poor kid. Mom shakes you awake at four am because those weddings always start way early. She's probably wearing some kinda fastener and plops one on him. She's so excited and he's like "...this. Is. Death." I'm picturing that episode of The Middle when Patricia Heaton's Frankie just wanted to watch the royal wedding with her kids and they were all busy. She had a fastener and a noise maker for some reason. lol we Americans are fascinated with the English royals. We watched the weddings of William and Harry more than those in the UK did, so say the Neilsens. The period of Charles and Diana's marriage--they barely knew each other when they got married which I did not know--is depicted in the most recent season of The Crown. A very good show.
> 
> Note 5: Realizing now, as an adult, that Pepe Le Pew's actions against Penelope Pussycat are kinda...sexual harassment-y. Damnit, entertainment! This is what happens when you grow up. Can't enjoy shit.  
> I still laugh at the WWII-era depictions of Bugs as Hitler, tho. As a Jew, I love all that shit. All the Hitler memes mocking him. He took himself so seriously. So his Hell is having to read all those memes. My favorite is one of him saluting in front of a weather map and it says "Tomorrow, we're looking at reign and a little bit of heil..." Love it. I also have a WWII collection of those Looney Tunes and Disney produced shorts for teh kiddiezz of the time (the Silent Generation). It's fascinating stuff, including a short of Donald Duck as a Nazi that was banned until the 90s called Der Fuehrer's Face. It won an Oscar in '45 I believe then was banned lol that's a nice how ya do. "We appreciate your work but we can't show it for fifty years." I think it was the depiction of a Japanese Nazi that ultimately got it banned. Still fascinating, you can look up the short in whole on YouTube
> 
> Note 6: This is how you know that Sixteen Candles was written by a dude lol. No girl in her right MIND would give a guy her underwear so he can show his friends and prove that he "nailed" her. I don't care how down on his luck he appeared. Furthermore, the way Ted and Caroline get together is....date rapey. "Did we have sex?" "I think so..." "Well, did you like it?" "You know, I think I did." *sad trombone* Dude, don't run for office in the future, kay?  
> John Hughes, I love you for the movies you made, but you were WAY out of touch.
> 
> Note 7: I'm picturing Larry's basement like Will's from Stranger Things lol that's a cool ass basement. I wish I had one like that growing up. 
> 
> Note 8: If I got the French wrong, I apologize to any French speakers lol I used a translation app. I wasn't about to pay for that shit. I took Spanish in HS, and all I remember is how to ask where my pants are. I know some German. Claire's thesis in We All Gotta Grow Up Sometime about the further implementation of foreign languages in American public Schools is a "thing" of mine (not my own thesis; I studied history so mine was about the Battle of Stalingrad lol). We don't put emphasis on learning languages other than English AT ALL due to isolationism and it SUCKS and it's embarrassing./ I'm still struggling with German and I wanna learn French too and most other countries can balance three or four languages easily; they put us to shame. We don't even start learning the middling choices we do have (usually Spanish or French) until high school when it's too late to retain information. My friend, who is German and emigrated here when she married American, wants to put her son in a German international school for just this reason. Unfortunately, it would cost A LOT, and public school costs nothing, but there are real lapses in education. I learned more just surfing the internetz than I did in, say, US History or Spanish II.
> 
> Note 9: Title Explanation: there are forty eight hours left before school starts.


	20. Chapter 16: Saved By the Bell (part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! The past few weeks were NOT fun. Let's just say a lot of things broke. I won't go into specifics, but it made writing very difficult indeed.'
> 
> I intended on making this part longer but since it was already 20 pages I opted to slice it in two chappies.

Claire wasn’t normally a driver. 

Like, at all. 

She had *people* for that, thanks. Like the oft-disapproving Mr. Brambles. 

That morning, though, she snatched a pair of her father’s car keys, stole one of his sleek, silver BMWs, almost as beloved to him as she herself was, and started on the trek across town to pick up the Breakfast Club. Brambles was used to stopping throughout the North Side for the likes of Benny Hanson and Vanessa Parker and would have too many questions. 

She picked up Allison first, since she was closest. For the first day of school, she looked a mishmosh between Allison and Claire in a long black skirt and a red cashmere tank top with a skull and bones emblazoned on the front. Whatever, at least there was no black shit. Her expression, though, was all Allison, angry and close-faced, as she hurriedly threw her very large bag into the passenger’s seat and then herself, arms crossed protectively over her middle. 

Claire, loosely holding the clutch in park, raised an eyebrow,. “Do I wanna know?”

Allison scoffed. “Just Lenore being Lenore. Drive.”

Next was Andy in the Everything Else. Claire didn’t come to this part of town often except to buy albums and the like. The North Side even had its own exclusive grocery, stocked with mostly gourmet things most couldn’t afford. Andy was coming down the cement porch steps with a knapsack hoisted over his shoulder, rolling his eyes and shouting over his shoulder whilst he approached the idling BMW.

“Yes, Mom, I know, I know, I’ll take Kyle to the optometrist’s after school and we’ll be home by sundown.” Andy threw his Jansport into the backseat then climbed in himself, raking a hand through his hair and shutting the door behind him. “Jeez. I love my mom but could she nag!”

Claire put the BMW in drive. “Wait ‘til you meet Brian’s mom.” She hadn’t the pleasure either but from all she’d heard, well…

Yep, Mrs. Johnson was everything she expected and more, just from the brief glimpse she had of her that morning. Brian, dressed a little more Brian in a sweater vest, a wrinkled oxford that looked as though it had been lying on the bottom of a closet for far too long, and khakis, trudged down the porch steps, a green knapsack thrown over his shoulder, and a curly-haired woman in a blue jogging suit and long, dangly earrings on his heels. Claire could not discern from this vantage, but she appeared to be barking orders. 

“...and the hot cocoa for Mary, don’t forget!”

Brain unshouldered his bag and shoved it in beside Andy’s. Then climbed in beside it. “Y--Yes, M--mom, I--I got it a--all.”

A looming, curly-haired figure stood glaring over the seated Brian. “Repeat the list.”

Brian gulped audibly. Claire considered backing over Mercedes Johnson with the BMW. Oops. “A--a gallon o--of R--Rocky R--Road ice...ice cream. H--hot cocoa. D--Doritos…”

“And…?” Flex went the red-painted claws on her fingers.

Brain closed his watery blue eyes. “T--tampons. J--jumbo size.”

Mercedes Johnson nodded once. “Very good. Be home before five.” Then, she slammed the door shut and walked away.

Andy inched toward Brian on the backseat, grimacing. “Good Lord, man. I’ve only been of your mom’s acquaintance for a minute and I already have crippling social anxiety. No wonder your stutter’s worse around her.”

All Brian did was leaf through his bag and mutter about being his younger sister’s tampon-fetcher. 

Last but certainly not least. Claire considered that she probably should have taken a less flashy car than the silver BMW if she knew that she was going to be ambling through the Southside but oh well, too late now. Claire nosed the BMW through the increasingly familiar streets until she came to a rather unkept house with garbage bags taped to the windows on Kenny’s Cove Road boasting an immaculate green lawn--and one angry teenaged boy clopping across that immaculate lawn in his Doc Martens, black messenger bag that read PISS OFF in thick Soviet-style letters on the flap thrown over one shoulder, calling back through a storm door that was hanging by only one hinge. “Yeah, yeah! You say that every morning. Buy a fucking ticket.”

And then he threw the messenger bag and himself in beside Brian in the backseat, squashing the poor Brain in the middle. She hoped he didn’t get car sick. 

Claire turned in her seat as John settled. “What was that about?”

He shrugged. “My old man being my old man. Let’s get this show on the road.”

And it certainly would be a show. 

The paved paradise that was Shermer High was in its social hive, right at the start of the ‘84-’85 school year. Everyone had a place and everyone in their places. The D-group--generally made up of Brains like Brian--on the outskirts, the C-group--punks like Bender--along the edges of the “court”, the B-group--theatre kids, lesser athletes like those on the golf team--more toward the middle. And the exalted A-group at the top of the stairs. Lording their glittery glory over everyone. The top tier athletes on the right and the princesses on the left. Benny holding court atop the ramp for the disabled (which was meant for, you know, the disabed) with her shiny blonde hair and shiny white face. Gossiping with Stacy Luder. Throwing her hair every which way. 

Ugh. Even from here, she exuded the depth of a puddle. Had Claire ever really been like that? And flaunted it? 

She watched closely as Benny minutely turned, met her eyes, and very slightly narrowed her own. Like a frigging hawk. Claire’s lips pursed, somehow even more determined now than she’d been before.Climbing out of the driver’s seat, she reached in for her brown leather knapsack, threw it over her shoulder, and, standing beside the car next to a loitering John who was pretending to search through his messenger bag, Clarie stuck out her hand. He gazed at it dubiously. Andy climbed out of the car and threw his arm around Allison. Benny’s eyes narrowed further. Claire shook her open palm, more assertive this time. 

John rolled his eyes, but took her long-fingered hand anyway.

There were gasps, there were stares, as Claire had expected, as the five cut through the social jungle that was Shermer High in the morning; she could hear the tail ends of gossip as the tellers weaved their their own versions of tall tales. Jennifer Brakehurst of the B-group (theatre kid, total pima donna) stared as first Andy Clark and Ally, then Brainy Brian in the middle, then a Criminal and a Princess made their way through the congested front yard gawked, mouth hanging open unattractively, and scoffed “Was that *Claire Standish* and *John Bender* or was I seeing things? And who the hell was that with Andy Clark?” Beside her, her friend, Crystal Weeks, cleaned her glasses. 

At the top of the literal social pyramid that was Shermer, lining the cement staircase, the \princesses and the athletes wordlessly, some muttering, stepped back to allow the five to pass. Straightening, Benny moved from her perch at the very point of the pyramid and, flanked as always by the Luder sisters, approached Claire with her arms crossed.

“Claire! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” she screeched; Claire cringed as she elbowed right past her. Had her voice always carried such a high octave? 

“Going into school,” she explained dully, knowing full well that this very much was not the explanation Benny would have preferred. 

Benny’s taut arms tightened. “That’s *not* what I mean! What is *this*?!” She gazed John up and down with all the disdain of one of those imaginary spiders Allison had sworn she’d seen in Benny’s hair last year. “Who are *you*?”

As if she didn’t know. John flicked his hair out of his face. “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same question.”

Benny looked apoplectic. How dare anyone in this school insinuate that they did not know of the great Benny Hanson?!

John led her into the building. Claire fought very hard not to stick her tongue out at Benny’s puce visage. Then did it anyway. 

Inside was more of the same. The main difference was that they had to deal with Rooney and Vernon at the entrance, who always waited in the lobby the morning before school started--ostensibly as part of their jobs but Claire figured it had more to do with guarding the various trophy cases in the lobby to make certain the wave ot student humanity didn’t make off with anything. 

Upon glimpsing the unlikely fivesome walking together, both educators quirked twin eyebrows in confusion. One red, one thick and dark. “Well. It’s….refreshing...to see students of different cliques come together but…..I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

John sighed and turned to Andy. “Bueller’s right. He really *doesn’t* have a sense of humor.”

The shit don’t stink grin on Ed Rooney’s mustachioed mouth crashed down and a scowl took its place. As always, Vernon’s expression remained “perpetually constipated”. 

Vernon gestured between the five of them with a greasy finger. “Didn’t I put you all in detention once?”

John blew a strand of hair out of his face. “How *ever* did this guy become a teacher, having to memorize facts and figures?”

Allison emitted a squeak of amusement, and off they were again. 

In the hall, from the early birds and the sneak-ins, they received yet more stares, yet more whispers. Julie Dickerson gasped. Spuds Kleghorn walked into a door. Nicole Eilerts rolled over Timothy Kane’s foot in her wheelchair. Woops. Making out in a corner, their arms around each other, Caroline Mulford and Farmer Ted glanced up for a few seconds to flash them the thumbs-up. Ty Carter cackled. 

Class, of course, was more of the same .At the start of every year, each class piled into the cafeteria for a Safe Sex lecture (in order to satisfy the state’s requirements that sate sex be taught in all Illinois public schools). The senior class was the last, and all two-hundred members of such poured inside the otherwise empty caf for a lecture about penises and vaginas and now to keep them sufficiently covered led by the illustrious Principal Rooney himself when the job usually fell to some hapless gym teacher.   
Ferris was beside himself. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!” He quickly vacated the table in the middle he was seated at for one right in the front.

Sloane shook her head beside Claire. Earlier, Ferris had gasped, clasped his chest, and motioned between John and Claire with an expression like a stuck fish, “I *knew* there was something going on there! *How* did this happen?! I want *all* the gory details!”

John quirked an eyebrow. “Bueller. You sure you’re not gay?”

Ferris gazed down at his amazing cow-print vest, glanced askance at his best friend, Cameron Frye, who, again, was donning his trademark red Gordy Howe jersey, shook his head, and gave John a toe top Look. “You wish.”

Bender scoffed. “Please. If I was gay, I could do better than *yu*, Bueller.”

Again, Sloane shook her dark head. “He’s not. Trust me.” And patted Ferris’ bicep, sheathed in a cowboy-esque denim shirt under his cow vest. “Ferris, they met in detention last year. Remember?”

Frye snorted. “Naturally. If John Bender was gonna meet any chick it’d be in detention.”

John took the words in stride, smoking a cigarette despite being in the middle of a no smoking zone. John shrugged. “Either there or the field, and Queenie doesn’t go out there anymore now that she is off the cheer squad. And I can’t believe I even used the words ‘cheer squad’ in a sentence.”

Sloane elbowed Claire at her right. “We do miss you, you know, you were a great back base.”

Claire winced. That was not an experience she particularly missed. Upon joining the squa, she was made a back base because she was tall, and, as such, she was relegated to making sure those awesome stunts she’d always dreamed about came to fruition instead of performing them herself. Additionally, there was the pain. Oh, the pain!

Claire shook her head. “I won’t be rejoining anytime soon. I don’t miss all the scrapes and bruises and balancing a bunch of people.”

Once more, John shrugged. “How hard can cheerleaiding be? You wear sweaters, you stick out your boobs, you shake your pom-poms, and yell ‘Go T-E-A-M. Fight! Win!’”

On the bench across from them, Andy, that traitor, guffawed and clapped. “We got spirit, yes we do! We got spirit, how ‘bout you?!’”

Next to him, his girlfriend gasped and smacked his bicep. Andy frowned and grunted. “Hey! Wha was that for?”  
Allison glared. “I’ve had lunch outside, I’ve watched the cheerleaders practice. It’s *not* easy! At all.”

Sloane nodded in satisfaction. Being mid-height, she was usually a base, but she could also perform the odd stunt here and there. Unlike Claire, who’d never even left the ground. “Thank you. Ally, is it? It *isn’t* easy. Think about it this way, guys. Football players have to balance, well, footballs, right? We have to balance *people*. AND ourselves.”

Andy looked pensive for a moment, then his shoulders bobbed beneath his white tee. “I guess you have a point.”

“Damn back base,” Claire grumbled, subconsciously rubbing her elbow where she’d received many injuries during her tenure. “Just standing there making sure everyone doesn’t die. Holding the whole damn squad up. And you want me to go back to *that*? No thanks.”

“Whatever,:” the petite Megan Hicks scoffed, looking at her painted nails. “I could totally join...if I wasn;t about as flexible as a lead pipe.”

Sloane looked Megan over. She was five feet even. While Claire had never once left the ground, Megan would never see it. “You’re petite. You’d be a flyer, easy.”

Claire agreed. “They’d toss you up. Someone would forget to catch you at some point. You’d get a concussion or break your butt bone and have to go to the hospital.”

Directly catty-corner from Claire, the Brain cringed. “J--jeez. Th--that all sounds d--dangerous. Mary...Mary wants to get into it. M--maybe I should...should dis--discourage her fr--from trying that sp--sport.”

“It’s not a sport,” John and Andy intoned in tandem. At once, both Claire and Allison whacked their respective paramours. 

Ferris gasped and snaked an arm around his girlfriend. “It is *too* a sport! My Sloane exerts more energy just yelling than I do pantsing Rooney.”

Sloane looked at her boyfriend with pride then nodded once succinctly, smirking a bit in triumph. “Like I said, we balance *people*. And we get serious injuries. Just last week, I nearly broke my leg climbing to the top of the pyramid! And by the way, when I say ‘climbing’’ I don’t mean a ladder! We’re climbing *people*. Their hands. Their shoulders. Their *heads*.”

“All the while looking fabulous,” Claire added knowingly. Her blue and gray Shermer High uniform still hung in her closet, unwrinkled. “Not just our uniforms. We have to do our hair, our makeup, facial glitter, all that shit. Ribbons on our sneakers. But rolling around on the stinky gym floor. I guess that’s totally a sport.”

Andy frowned deeper. “Yeah, yeah. I roll around on the floor with other guys, whatever.”  
.  
John pointed at him with a half-gloved finger. “You said it, I didn’t.”

Now, it was the middle of the day. A hush befell the generally noisy cafeteria as Principal Rooney, clad in his trademark power blue suit, pushed through the double doors to the cafeteria, looking quite nervous indeed. Claire could clearly make out the pit stains and the sweat on his brow from where she sat.

She watched whilst Rooney’s always harried and rushed secretary, Grace, raced in behind him/ Runs in her stockings. Slip showing. Pencils in her bun of messy brown hair.

‘God, that woman is screaming for a makeover.’ 

Without a word, Rooney climbed the metal risers placed there for last year’s Spring Chorus an never removed, ascended to a dais, sighed forlornly, vaguely pointed to a projector screen hanging aloft from the ceiling, and yelled “Lights!” Carl the janitor flipped the lights off.Rooney was held in a circlet of spotlight. 

“Uh. So. Um. W--welcome. All of you. To, um, this class.” Rooney nervously clapped his hands together, and Claire almost pitied the man. 

Almost. 

“Pfft,” John scoffed beside her, waving one gloved hand around her head. “*This* guy’s gonna teach us all about our no-no parts? He looks like a Slip N’ Slide.”

At the front of the cafeteria, it seemed that Ferris was enjoying himself just as much. He raised his hand, and, after pointedly ignoring it for a few seconds, Rooney sighed, cringed, and asked what Ferris wanted. “Sir, *what* class is this again?”

Rooney’s mustache looked as though it was about to melt off his face. “You know very well what class this is, Mr. Bueller! We have this lecture every year at the start of the fall semester!”  
On Ferris’ shrug was purely exaggerated, as was his frown of confusion. Claire shook her head. Sloane was fighting a smirk. “You’re the educator, sir. So educate me!”

Cameron rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. “Ferris for you. If an opportunity arises where he can humiliate Rooney, he won’t let that moment pass.”

On the dais, Rooney was a puddle. A puddle in a bad out of date suit and a wet red combover. “It’s, um, sexualeducation.” It all came out in one nonsensical exhalation. One word. Sexualeduation. 

Ferris bobbed his ear like he hadn’t heard sitting in the front center. “Sorry, Principal Rooney? What was that? I didn’t quite catch that.”

“*I said Sexual Education, Mr. Bueller!” Rooney threw his hands up in exasperation. “Sex Ed. We’re gonna be talkin’ about S-E-X, so buckle up, buttercup!”

Also in the front row, though at a round table shrouded in shadow entombed in a corner, Mr. Vernon buried his head in his hands. Claire’s lips pulled at the corners. 

“All right, so, uh...Grace! The slide!” The secretary in desperate need of a makeover hurried to a projector clicking in an aisle in the middle of the caf and loaded an image of...what appeared to be the female reproductive system. With a pointer he procured out of thin air, he gestured to specific parts. “Here we have, uh, the labia majora and the labia minora and, uh, there is the clitoris--”  
“Poor Dick,’s wife. He can never find that one.” That was John, obviously. 

The contents of the caf erupted in titters. Vernon picked up his head and glared directly at Claire’s...whatever, they hadn’t defined anything yet, though she highly doubted John was the label type. His face was red, like beat red. Either in ire or embarrassment, she wasn’t sure. ‘Probably both.’

“First a day of school, Mr. Bender,” Vernon bit. “And you’ve already won yourself a Saturday!”

John merely shrugged, pretending to buff his nails on the chest of his white t-shirt. “What can I say? I’m a record-setter.”

“Maybe I should just expel you instead!”

Still, John remained unruffled, as was his wont. “Go ahead. This place sucks, anyway.”

“Ahem.” Rooney cfossed his arms over his stupid outdated suit. He hated doing this but he sure loved to hear himself talk. He always, without fail, gave the commencement speech, and he’d be up at the podium going on and on about destiny and the future and conquering the world. “May I continue now?”

Ferris clasped his hands together. “Yes! Please continue, Principal Rooney, sir. I want to know more about labias and clitorisus. Clitori?” 

“I think we *all* want to know more about that, Bueller,” John snarked. Megan guffawed while Claire whacked his bicep. “Ow.”  
“Pig.”

John leaned back in his seat uncaringly. “You love it.”

She kind of did, though. 

...what was wrong with her?

At the front of the caf, Rooney cleared his throat for the upteenth time--’Damn, that thing must be phlegmy, gross!'--and fidgeted like an anxious kindergartener on his first day of school. “Er, would someone like to, uh, come up ‘ere and point out where the baby grows when a woman gets, uh, pregnant?”

Ferris raised a hand again. Eagerly. Rooney tried valiantly to ignore the waving appendage for a full two minutes until he just couldn’t anymore, gave a put-upon sigh, and nodded . “Yes, Mr. Bueller. Would you like to come up?”

Ferris dropped his arm with a loud plop. “Oh, not a chance in hell! However, I did have a question.”

Another put-upon sigh, as though Rooney was dealing with Lucifer’s child himself. “Yes?”

“When do we go over *how* women get pregnant? Is there a manual? Do I just...hop to it?”

“I gotta give him that one,” John muttered, arms crossed over his chest. “I’ve never actually *hopped* to it. Might be time to try something new.” And he wiggled his brows at her.   
Claire made a face and pushed him, though she wasn’t truly very offended. She was starting to grow quite used to his ribald comments--even kind of appreciating them…

It was *really* a nice change of pace to be desired as her, Claire, and not as Claire Standish, only daughter of the illustrious Richard Standish, self-made whateverionaire. 

She’d never realized what a breath of fresh air that could be.

“Be patient, Mr. Bueller!” Rooney snapped; he’d obviously had quite enough of Gen X for the day, and the lecture had barely begun. Claire pretended not to laugh into her compact mirror. “All right, again I ask, who wants to come up?”

John mock-coughed into his cracked leather fingerless gloves. “Mr. Johnson.”

Poor Brian. His whole complexion had gone as white as curdled milk in a hot second. “N--no….please no….”

“I heard ‘Mr. Johnson!’” Rooney looked way too relieved to have found a momentary patsy. “Come on up!” Like he was Bob Barker to a contestant on “The Price is Right’. Claire loved that show.l She always got the prices right on target.

Gulping audibly, Brian slugged up to the projector like he was walking to his execution. Briefly standing in front of the dais to take the pointer from Rooney, he returned to the projector and, evidently anxious, traced a sketchy line to the uterus. Then dropped the pointer and raced back to his seat, head bowed.

Claire patted his shoulder sympathetically. Brain groaned and buried his head in his arms atop the table. The senior class gathered in the cafeteria laughed. Bender the loudest. 

Rooney bent to retrieve the wayward pointer with a snap and a glare in Brian’s direction (not that he saw it with his head still buried in his folded-up arms) then returned to the dais. “That is correct! Now, can anyone tell me, um, how a woman, um, gets pregnant and what we can do to prevent this?”

Up went Ferris’ arm again. “Oooh! Oooh! Pick me! I know, I know!”

John pillowed his head with his hands and smirked lazily. “So do I.”

Claire mimicked Brian, plopped face-first on the cafeteria table, and draped her jacket over her head.

No one else was willing to volunteer, not that Claire could place blame. Crickets could be heard throughout the cafeteria, other than the occasional totally mature giggle. Really. They sat through this every year. 

Rooney ran a hand through his thinning reddish hair. “Fine. Mr. Bueller?”

Ferris lowered his waving arm. “Well, it’s simple, sir. Sex! The penis fits into the vagina, the man, er, ejaculates, the egg is fertilized by the ejaculate, or sperm, and voila! In nine months, you got a baby.”

John snorted. “In nine months, you got a little crying, shitting, puking machine.”

Rooney tapped his pointer against the projector screen, on which was still the graphic of the female reproductive system. “Despite Mr. Bueller’s rather *abrupt* and *flippant* response, that was actually a pretty accurate definition of the act of conception.”

Ferris looked bewildered, like someone had sucker punched him in the face. “I defined something? Accurately?” Slamming closed one of his text books, he added, “Guess I’m done with the book learnin’.”

Cameron and Sloane shook their heads in unison. “That’s my boyfriend,” Sloane remissed, clicking her tongue against her teeth.

“That’s my best friend.” Cameron raked a hand through his dark hair.

Afterwards, Rooney passed out overripe bananas and wrapped condoms. Every student had a different reaction to the bananas. Claire gawked at hers dubiously. John and Andy simply shrugged and ate theirs, then John unwrapped the condom and placed it on his nose. Allison opened hers with her teeth and dragged it on the banana perfectly. Megan laughed, pointed to her banana, and called it every man’s fantasy. Sloane and Cameron were pretending theirs were lightsabers. Brian just kept blushing whenever he picked up the condom. 

“Does...anyone want to demonstrate?” Rooney asked from his position standing in the middle of the dais. His own banana was in closeup on the projector screen. 

Once again, Ferris enthusiastically waved around his arm. “Ooh! Ooh, ooh! Me!”

“Anyone *else*?” Crickets. “Fine, then, cowards. Mr. Bueller. If you’d please.”

Claire folded her hands on the table and watched as Ferris rose from his, clicked his heels, approached the projector, scooped up first the condom, then the banana, and sheathed the phallic fruit faultlessly, pinching the end for good measure. “Mr. Banana is ready for intercourse with Miss Peach.”

The cafeteria tittered. One barking laugh that echoed above all others sounded suspiciously like Phil Dale’s, but Claire didn’t know him well enough to be certain. 

“Nah,” John drawled when the amusement had died down somewhat, his boot-clad feet propped up on Ferris’ now vacant seat. “That’d be anal; you don’t need a condom for that!”

Rooney cleared his disgusting throat again and pointed his index finger toward John. “Au contraire, Mr. Bender! You can’t get pregnant that way, that is true, but even anal sex can still spread sexually transmitted diseases. Slide!”

The oft-harried Grace hurried to replace the sheathed banana with...what looked to Claire to be a set of tiny puss-filled volcanoes. 

Ew! Grody!

Rooney pointed to the pull-down projector screen with an air of self-importance. “Now. Can anyone tell me what *this* is?”

A voice that sounded like it belonged to Jean Bueller, Ferris’ more maligned sister, shouted a reply. “A raging case of herpes!”

The cafeteria laughed. Rooney frowned but nodded. “Indeed, Miss Bueller. This *is* a ‘raging case of herpes. Slide!”

The blandly suited Grace quickly replaced the tiny pus-filled Volcanoes with another equally as disgusting representation. This one kind of had a…Renaissance zombie vibe going for it. 

John couldn’t control himself, it seemed. He barked a laugh and wiggled his boots. “Ha! Got a new movie idea for ya there, Romero. Night of the Medieval Undead.” 

In the corner, Vernon merely shook his head and buried his face in his hands. Claire would’ve felt sorry for him if he were any other person. 

“Hilarious, Mr. Bender,” Rooney droned, pointing to the screen with his trusty pointer. “*This* is syphilis. Tragically, what syphilis *used* to do before the advent of modern medicine. In the later stages, insane with the disease, sufferers would just…lose parts of their bodies. They’d be walking skeletons, pretty much.” As one, the cafeteria groaned. “Back then, syphilis was mostly treated with silver and mercury. Didn’t always take obviously; it was a common ailment because no one knew how to properly protect themselves back then. Slide!”

Rooney then treated them all to a slideshow of various disturbing STDs—gonorrhea, chlamydia, hepatitis, HPV, HIV, the list went on and on. And every entry was just that more and more disquieting. Claire glanced askance at John, who was still lying back in the prone position like he was about to take an afternoon nap. This annual lecture was not *deterring* her, per se, but it was emphasizing the importance of protection. She was *not* ready to deal with any of…this. She went crazy when she got a zit!

Rooney cleared that phlegmy throat again. Ew. This signaled that he was about to ask something that he considered embarrassing or perform a task that he considered mortifying in front of a whole room of teenagers who did not respect his authority one bit. “Um, er, does anyone, er, want to draw a diagram on the blackboard here?” The principal gestured to a chalkboard on wheels, looking sad and lonely shrouded in shadow in a corner of the dais. 

Allison, previously silent, rose. “I will.” The caf was hushed whilst she walked to the dais, long skirt dragging behind her, climbed up without using the risers, approached the chalkboard, picked up a piece of white chalk, and noisily scrawled something on the green background. Claire cringed as she drew, gnashing her teeth together as the screeching sound echoed, and sighed in relief when Allison replaced the chalk and sat down. Two stick figures remained, one sitting up, the other splayed over the first stick figure with its long stick figure hair tumbling over its stick figure shoulders.

John burst out laughing. 

Rooney’s face grew as red as his receding hairline. “The heck is this, Missy?”

Allison shrugged. “You wanted a diagram, right?”

“That looks like some sort of weird rodeo thing!”

Ferris raised his hand, then spoke without being called on. “That’s right, sir. That there is called ‘cowgirl’.” In his seat, he turned and nodded at Allison, silently giving her “props”. If she and Andy had tried it that way, Claire wanted to know nothing about it. “That’s a nice one. Good choice!” Then he gazed at Sloane, eyebrows wiggling. 

Sloane just blushed. Cameron punched himself in the face. “I’m not here, I’m not here…”

For the last portion of the “lecture”, Rooney called upon Andy and Sloane to stand there like idiots doing a semi pornographic simulation…with puppets. Using both students, a naked Barbie doll, and a hippo puppet in a letterman’s jacket, the next five minutes were quite embarrassing for all parties indeed. 

John tipped his chair back and spat out the gum he was chewing. “That was the worst porno I’ve ever seen.”

Ferris concurred. “I agree. A solid half star. Two thumbs way down. Sorry, guys.”

Afterward, as the senior class was pouring out of the cafeteria, Spuds Kleghorn, dressed like the wasteoid he was in a leather jacket, tight black jeans, and a ripped band tee, a guy John’s group hung around with sometimes, stopped him at the door. “Dude. Claire Standish? Are you really with her? Like *with* her with her?”

Claire rolled her eyes. She was *right* here! But then again the wasteoid group had never been much with manners. 

John merely shoved his chest. “None ya. Shut up and piss off.” Then led her out of the caf.  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Mrs. Johnson is always scary.
> 
> Note 2: Ferris rBueller: THE first metrosexual. He made it cool before the OG Queer Eye guys did. Come on, he dresses fabulously, he can dance, he can sing, he can do his hair, he knew how to work a computer before most of his gen did, he's bold, he's brash, he's a CRABPERSON CRABPEOPLE CRABPEOPLE CRABPEOPLE!! Tell me I'm not the only one who gets that sixteen year old ref #SouthPark 
> 
> Note 3: Did I sneak in my own teenage agenda into my fanfic? Maaaaaaaaaaaaaybe. As a former cheerleader, it IS a sport mmkay? Do you understand the sheer athleticism and patience (not a virtue I have in spades) that is required to be a cheerleader? I'm small so I was a flyer and yes my base DID forget to catch me once and I got a concussion because of it. He says he just sneezed but either way I am calling YOU OUT, TYLER! I got more bumps and scrapes and bruises cheering than I ever did playing soccer or softball and that is a fact. I'm surprised I still have a buttbone, tbh. Hats 0ff to the back bases of the squads, they have to hold stunts up and get none of the glory. And it is PAINFFUL!. A friend of mine was a back base. Norwegian exchange student. She often said she had some Viking in her. She was six feet even and once had to get her kneecap replaced due to a stunt gone wrong wherein the entire squad fell back on top of her. And all that happened at Homecoming in front of hundreds of screaming fans. We have to do all this looking amazing. At least you8 guys don't get lambasted for sweating. "If you're gonna sweat, glisten! GLISTEN, DAMN YOU ! YOU ARE DELICATE FLOWERS, NOT MEATHEADS IN JOCKSTRAPS!" Now this was all fifteen years ago, things are probably different now, how the coaches treat the girls but back then? Holy cap it was like boot camp! The guys on the squad got away with more but we were under strict watch at all times
> 
> Note 4: random Buffy ref: I Only Have Eyes For You, Season 2, a Xander line lol
> 
> Note 5: Anyone else's school do the random Beginning of the Year Sex Ed Seminar to satisfy the state's mandatory safe sex ed requirement courses? lool they were always given by the gym teacher. \Nothin like your soccer coach talking about genital warts for an hour to give you That Awkward Moment 
> 
> Note 6: Of course we all know that a condom is needed for anal sex NOW but back in the 80s stopping pregnancy was the big issue not the spread of STDs or STIs.


	21. Chapter 17: Saved By the Bell (part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last chapter was 22 pages this one is shorter

Chapter 17: Saved By the Bell (part 2)

“Claire *Standish*?! You were in detention with *Claire Standish*?”  
Steve “Stubbie” Marshall may as well have just asked Andy if he had been detained with Madonna herself It was Just after the stupid and unnecessary Safe Sex Seminar—at least it was performed by Rooney himself this year, that had been entertaining, if not his own brief forced participation with that hippo puppet—he and Stubbie were ensconced in their last period of the day (as seniors, they only had to endure six periods instead of the usual eight, huzzah!), Cinema II with the illustrious Mrs. Van der Veen. Watching the clock, the seconds ticking by so slowly, so torturously. Yep, school was back in session.

At least he didn’t have to go through the show of explaining to his “friends” just who the mysterious Ally was, thanks to Benny blurting it all out last year…and Stubbie saving both their asses by, well, just being Stubbie. 

Now, sitting in desks side by side, Andy was explaining to his oldest and most trusted friend and confidant just how Allison Reynolds, “that weird chick in the back of every room Benny used to take the piss out of” (his words, care of an uncle in London) transformed into Ally, the “total babe” he was dating. 

Andy explained how Claire made her over in detention, and considering that there was only one “Claire” in their entire graduating class, Stubbie quickly put two and two together.   
“The one and only.”

“What the hell was *she* doing in detention?”

Andy shrugged. “I think she got caught skipping class or something.”

“And her old man couldn’t get her out of it? Weird.” Stubbie’s brow furrowed. “He, like, owns this town.”

Andy grinned. “Probably got one too many dress-code violations.”

“Probably. Some of Standish’s hemlines should be illegal.”

Andy cleared his throat and lowered his voice when Mrs. Van der Veen, clad this morning in a tight gray dress and frameless glasses, trying to look the part of teacher and half-succeeding, Andy figured, and leaned closer to Stubbie’s desk. “You won’t believe who she’s going out with.”

“Who? No. wait, let me guess. Todd Moscovitz.”

Todd Moscovitz was, as far as Andy knew, the captain of the Chess Team, had a predilection for old man pants (arm-pit length, often plaid), and, furthermore, the most irascible personality of anyone in the entire school. The idea of Todd dating anyone was laughable. 

Minutely, Andy shook his head. “Yeah, right. Todd Moscovitz doesn’t even know anyone in this school’s name other than Todd Moscovitz.”

Stubbie clicked his tongue against his teeth. “True. How about Lance Taggart?”

Mrs. Van der Veen glowered at them over her perfect shoulder again. “Boys! Mr. Clark! Mr. Marshall! Are either of you paying the *least* bit of attention?”

“Yes, Mrs. Van der Veen!” both boys chorused at once. 

Mrs. Van der Veen placed her fists on her hips. “Then perhaps one of you can summarize the lesson thus far?”

Poor Stubbie looked totally lost. Fortunately for him, Andy was able to mostly tune out of any given lecture and still retain important information. What could he say? It was a gift.   
Andy leaned forward in his seat, unfazed. “You were discussing Robert Redford’s directorial debut in ‘Ordinary People’."

Mrs. Van der Veen frowned. Score one for the Athlete! “Very good, Mr. Clark. Now, head forward. You, too, Mr. Marshall.”

Andy pretended to listen only until Mrs. Van der Veen’s back was turned then spun back toward Stubbie’s desk. What had they been talking about? Oh, right. Lance Taggart.   
Lance Taggart. The guy had just done six months in juvie for setting a *car* on *fire*. Just for the hell of it. 

So…closer. 

“Warmer,” Andy said re: Lance, wincing at his unintended pun. “But no cigar.”

“Uh…Phil Dale?”

“No. He’s dating Kristy Swann, I think.”

Stubbie’s eyes all but bulged out of his head. “Kristy Swann? The gymnast? How the hell did *that* happen?”

Andy’s shoulders bobbed beneath his blue Shermer Seniors wrestling tee. Now that he *was* officially a senior, he could finally wear it. “I think they got together at Junior prom. He’s still got it bad for Andie Walsh, though.”

Stubbie shook his head. “Jeez. Samantha Baker and Jake Ryan. Farmer Ted and Caroline Mulford. Andie Walsh and Blane McDonough. Phil Dale and Kristy effing Swann! You and Allison Reynolds, who has emerged the hottie.” He gestured to Andy vaguely. “Something crazy goin’ on in this school. Something in the water, I bet. Jeez, maybe I should take out Betty Finn, eh? So, who’s Claire’s new guy? And please don’t tell me it’s another college weak like Stan Gable.”

Andy shook his head. He had never gotten on with Stan, the few times he’d come to campus to pick Claire up. He was a classic narcissist. Totally caught up in himself. And his hair. He’d probably go on to marry a well-off lady and live off her forever. Andy leaned in closer so their fellow athlete classmates would not overhear. “It’s John Bender.”

Stubbie’s eyes widened. His chair literally tipped back. Dude looked like he was about to keel over in shock. Like in a movie. “John fucking Bender? Are you kidding me, Clark?! I heard he did a year in San Quentin!”

Andy laughed. It was true that Bender had been missing all Sophomore year, but he’d blurted out the real reason for his absence over the summer during a spliff session with him and Bri in Andy’s basement—taking care of his deceased grandfather’s estate. “That’s bogus. But yeah. They met in that same detention. They’re not declaring anything, but they ain’t seeing anyone else, either.”

Stubbie whistled. “Damn. Claire Standish and John Bender. That one just may take the cake. No, the whole enchilada! I never in my wildest… Vernon’s gonna have kittens when this gets out! *How* did I not know about this?”

Andy rolled his eyes. No surprise there. Stubbie was always the last to know about everything. “Because you came in late this morning, as usual!” 

Stubbie made it a habit of strolling into the school an hour past start time. He always said that waking up at six AM was cruel and unusual punishment. He was right, but the rest of the school still did it. He got away with his frequent tardiness because he was such an ace baseball player.

Stubbie mock-shrugged. “That’s what I get for demanding my extra z’s, I guess!”

***  
John did not particularly want to do this.

Alas, he saw no real way around it unless a. that Acme invisible ink from all those ‘toons he watched as a kid actually existed. 2. He could get his hands on some, and Tres. Claire would let him douse her with the stuff so that only he could view her at all times. 

Yeah, neither option was likely. 

And Shermer wasn’t exactly a sprawling oasis. There were certainly no desert girls in bikinis here like in rock videos. Although…Claire probably had a few. Maybe if he asked nicely… Were they up to that level yet? Did they even *have* “levels”? See, this was why he didn’t fucking *do* relationships! They were so damn complicated!! John didn’t like complicated in any context.

He certainly liked Claire, though. In every context.

And Claire liked the one-guy one-girl thing.

…fucking fuck.

All this meant that he would have to introduce her to his friends at some point because it was just logical that they would start to wonder why the Prom Queen was hanging around their group (Gav and Ash would likely just assume that she and Bender were hooking up). 

He stopped short at glimpsing all of them, plus a few stragglers, loitering around the bleachers. Not just the usual suspects, but Izzy Jones, Jones’ younger sister and the lead singer of Tricky Dick Vernon and, oh God, Spuds Kleghorn, that gossip hound.

Queenie ploughed right into him, “Hey!”

John spun on the heel of his Doc Marten. So much for his "Rip off the Band-Aid" mantra. “Maybe save this for a rainy day.”

Claire rolled her eyes and turned him around. “Don’t be such a chickenshit. Come on.”

They ambled up to the bleachers and, raking a hand through his hair and clearing his throat like a jackass, he pointed out each friend in turn. Rubbing the back of his neck. Feeling like an idiot. “Claire, this is Gav—“ The dark haired stoner with the lip piercing. “—Ash—“ The renegade Richie. “—Jones—“ the long haired drummer who didn’t say much but what he did was worth listening to. “—Ty—“ His best friend. His compadre. His partner in crime—“—Izzy Jones—“ Jones’ younger sister. Soph Izzy who had the build of one much older. “—and Spuds”—Spuds Kleghorn, that gossip freak. 

“Everyone, Claire.”

The smoking teens continued to smoke. Claire waved vaguely, awkwardly, in their direction. They looked at her like she was a particularly interesting dung beetle under a microscope. 

She zeroed in on Ash, like some kind of Richie radar. “Hey! Aren’t you Ashford Langley?”

Ash, clad in tye-dye and beads like the faithful Grateful Dead fan he was, stepped forward. “Third of his kind.”

“I, uh, think my mom is friends with yours.

“How unfortunate for her.”

Claire laughed. “Yeah, my mom is the same way. Probably why they’re friends.”

She had a point there. Mrs. Standish was something else.

To his surprise, Izzy stepped forward next. She looked a lot like her brother. Both had dark coloring. Though she put Manic Panic in what she dubbed her “poo-colored hair” to give it some oomph, today she wore a thick red-orange streak in front on the right side of her face, matching her jean jacket near perfectly. “Don’t we have Arts together this year?”

Claire considered. “I think so.”

Izzy blew out a fragrant cloud of smoke. “Mrs. Sadowski. Kinda weird.”

“Just a bit.” Claire winced.

They chattered for another fifteen minutes, and Bender breathed a silent sigh of relief. She seemed to be getting along with his friends, at least. That was a good thing, right?  
Then, Ty asked to talk to Claire alone, and John felt ice in his veins. 

That couldn’t mean anything good. 

Could it?  
***

Claire grimaced when Tyson Carter led her away from the rest of the group toward the barely-used swingset beyond the bleachers. The last interaction she had had with the guy, she had called him a nerd in front of the entire cafeteria. And she knew he was John’s best friend. Thus, her heart was pounding even more than it had been meeting the rest of the punk kids.

Ty sat on one of the rusted swings, and invited Claire to perch on the one beside his. She did so, cautious.

Tyson ran a hand through his short black hair and chuckled awkwardly “I ain’t never been one to beat around the bush, so I’ll just come out. You seem all right, as far as richies go. But Bender’s my boy, so I gotta look out. You get me?”

He was being protective of his friend. Claire couldn’t fault him that. She was actually rather impressed…and relieved that he had such a good friend with a homelife like his. Claire was really kind of jealous. *She’d* never had a friend like that, someone she could alway go to, who was always looking out for her best interests. Sure. She’d called Benny her best friend for years, but she had never fooled herself; Benny Hanson had never been *that* kind of friend. She had never been Tyson Carter. 

Claire regarded him knowingly, pushing herself on the swing lightly. Back and forth. Back and forth, “You wanna know if I’m just slumming, Right?”

Honestly, the old Claire probably would’ve done just that without a second thought with an attractive but working class guy. Or merely used him as bait to piss off her mother. Whatever. But this new and improved Clair truly *liked* John. Whatever “class” he was.

Ty cocked an eyebrow. “Are you? I won’t say nothing. You can just walk away right now.”

Instead of answering right away, Claire pushed off with her boot-clad foot. “You know, I definitely never saw myself with a guy like John. He’s brash, he’s careless, he has holes in his jeans. But I like him. He makes me laugh.” She gazed askance at Ty. “He makes me laugh and pisses me off in the same breath. It’s incredible.”

Ty threw back his head and laughed. And laughed and laughed toward the heavens. “Yeah, that sounds like Bender all right.”

Claire shrugged as best as she was able in the swing. “So, I like him. As him. He’s…the only guy who’s ever *seen* me. If that makes sense. You know?”

Ty nodded his head from side to side. “Actually, it does. All right.” He stood from his swing and stretched. “I’m satisfied. Just had to make sure you weren’t pullin’ something here.”

She had passed muster! Considering that this was John’s best friend, who probably knew him better than anyone, that was quite the compliment, indeed. Also considering that…the last time she’d encountered this very person, she’d humiliated him.

Claire grimaced as she rose to a standing position. “I, uh, apologize for the ‘nerd’ thing…”

Ty blinked as though he had no idea what the heck she was talking about. Could he really have simply forgotten?

“In the caf,” she explained off his perplexed look. “Last year. Remember? I called you a nerd.”

Ty laughed again, much to her shock. “It’s cool. I didn’t take it personally. I know it was probably all Benny Hanson. She’s a…well, she’s somethin’ else, that one.”

“It was,” she admitted with a sigh. “Still. Sorry."

Ty’s shoulders bobbed beneath his black Space Invaders tee. “No harm, no foul. Now, let’s jam. I’ve stayed way too long at this place already.”  
Claire laughed. He had a point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Hey, guys gossip, too.
> 
> Note 2: Betty Finn. The nerd girl from Heathers. der. If you haven't seen it, what are you waiting for? I also modeled Gav Treadmore physically after Christian Slater's JD in that. 
> 
> Note 3: I like to think Ted McGinley's Stan Gable grew up and maried Marcie Darcy from Married With Children so he could live off her forever.
> 
> Note 4: Speaking of Heathers, Izzy is Winona Ryder. I've been wanting to use her but haven't had a proper character.


	22. Chapter 18{ Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk how long this one is but I got it out quicker than I would have thought! Next one should be longer

Chapter 18: Escape

Claire was trying to change who she was as a person, fundamentally, deep down, all that jazz. Ironically, “All That Jazz” was to be this spring’s musical. Well “Chicago”, at any rate, and she was going out for a part. Her, Claire Standish, Doing a dang play! She never would’ve bothered in her previous life. Plays were for, like, prima donnas and wannabes. The B list. She was A list through and through. Benny would’ve had kittens to see one of her girls on the school stage!

Now, though, Claire could care less what Benny thought, and she loved “Chicago”. Her dad had taken her to see it when she was a kid. She was determined to try out for a part if it killed her. 

So, she was trying on this whole new persona. Like a dress, a really cute dress. But there were some things about Claire Standish you just couldn’t change, she just couldn’t change. Nor did she want to. Like the fact that the mall was and would alwaqys remain her oasis. 

The Shermer Hills Mall—the place Claire had always escaped to when things got rough at home. Her parents were fighting—again—her brother was MIA, her so-called “friends” were nowhere to be found. Claire would get lost amid the racks at The Limited or BCBG or suck on an Orange Julius and all would be okay in her world again. 

But today, she had a specific mission in mind. Today, she planned to bypass The Limited and Orange Julius entirely. Today, she was headed for Victoria’s Secret. For the first time.  
Oh, God, she couldn’t believe she was actually doing this. It helped having Allison here. Sort of. 

Ally was here to do her own shopping. Which meant, obviously, that, at most, Claire was to be her Negligee-o-meter and, at least, stuck with very unwelcome mental images. On the other hand, Allison was proving a far more fun shopping partner than Benny and the Luders ever had been. For one thing, she didn’t spit venom like an adder at arbitrary people just passing through she didn’t even know. The girl with the side-pony she didn’t like. Or the boy with the UFO pants. The old lady with the patchwork afghan. Whatever was bothering Benny that day in particular. For another, she had a preference for really expensive cookies from Auntie Annie’s. Nine dollar cookies. That tasted exceptional. Claire had never had an oatmeal sandwich cookie before, but she was definitely going to invest. 

Ally also had a connection at the mall’s caf. Her cousin worked at the China Wok station, so they got the house special plate—orange chicken, bourbon beef, and two sides of fried rice and Chinese vegetables—for free, not that either of them couldn’t afford their lunches tenfold. All they had to pay for were their Snapple iced teas. 

After Chinese—which was definitely Americanized Chinese and not legitimate Chinese; Claire would know, having been to Beijing—they claimed a bench outside of Macy’s and chomped on their nine dollar cookies. Conversation mostly flowed around their individual paramours and not vicious gossip. Their teachers for the year. Why Rooney and Vernon continued to be weird. Claire mentioned meeting Ty Carter and her idea of introducing him to Megan Hicks. 

Allison almost spat out her cookie, smothered in Reese’s Pieces. It almost looked like normal food. “Megan Hicks? Princess Megan Hicks and Tyson Carter? Bender’s best friend? They’d kill each other! Then again, that’s not much different from you and Bender and it works for you guys so what do I know?”

Claire took a bite of her cookie and swallowed. “She was intrigued.”

Allison nodded. “She seems the type to be intrigued by a walk on the wild side. Okay! I’m ready to get my Victoria’s Secret on!”

Claire groaned as she stood to join her friend, throwing her napkin in the garbage can beside the bench. This little outing *had* been her idea, but… “As long as you don’t model anything for me.”

Allison cackled.

In the overtly pink store—Claire loved her some pink, obviously, but this was aggressively such, in her opinion—she sifted through rack after rack. Nothing appeared…right. What did one wear to lose one’s virginity, anyway?

Ally was no help in this endeavor; she was busy piling her arms with lacy underthing atop of lacy underthing. Mostly black, as far as Claire could tell. Eew. Black and deep purple, like sex with Andy was some kind of royal affair. Gross. 

Ah, what did she know, anyway? She lost hers dressed in leggings, for crying out loud. Not that Andy had complained, she was sure. Whatever, that was *not* going to be her, not Claire Standish; she was going to look the part. And that meant expensive underwear. 

Ultimately, she spotted on a weirdly posed mannequin draped in an underwear set of red lacy bra and panties that she decided were adequate enough for the job. The bra dipped low in, eh, the décolletage region and had a little bow in the middle and the panties were cut scandalously and trimmed in lace; perfect, and they were both in her size.

It was as she was attempting to remove thus from the stupidly posed mannequin that she felt a jab in her shoulder. Only one person dared to try to garner Claire Standish’s attention like that.

Benny. Ugh.

Claire’s eyes briefly, all too briefly, closed, still facing the now half-dressed mannequin. She counted to ten in her mind. She had known, of course she had known, that she would need to have this little confrontation with Benny eventually, but she had managed to successfully avoid it for the last few weeks. Time was up, it seemed. 

Claire spun on her heel, the red of the lacy bra still clutched loosely in her grasp. The underpants remained steadfastly on the mannequin. She painted a smile on her face. “Oh! Hi!”

She had known Benny was not going to be close to satisfied with that, and she was right. “’Oh, hi’? Please.” Benny Hanson scoffed, flipping her long blonde hair over her shoulder, smacking Tracy Luder in the face. “We’ve *barely* heard from you in weeks. Months! And all you have to say is ‘Oh, hi’?”

Claire shrugged. Had It really been that long? She supposed so. She hadn’t cared enough to keep track.

Benny gave an unladylike snort. ‘Again with the stupid shrugging. Hello?! Anyone home?! Think, Claire. Really think. Is this what you really want to do? Just…abandon us like this? You are Claire effing Standish! You are better than…this!” She gestured widely to Allison, and Claire saw red. Like a bull in a damn china shop. 

Claire stepped up to the blond, nose to nose. She had a good five inches on her and used all five of those inches to her advantage now. Hands on her hips, she glowered *down* at her former BFF. “That ‘this’ is a better friend than you ever were! And yes, I *do* really want to do this. Abandon all of you. You’re…you’re nothing but stuck up grade-A snobs!”  
Benny reared back as though slapped. Stacy and Tracy gasped in unison, their lipsticked mouths open unattractively. Honestly, Claire had wanted to use a word a tad more scandalous than “snobs” but she was standing right next to a young mom with a toddler; she wasn’t going to be responsible for corrupting the next generation.

“Fine,” Benny snapped, arms crossed. “Go shopping with the freaks in black. Hang out with the wasteoids. Date *all* the burnouts.” Ah, so she did know who John was, like there was ever any doubt about that. “See what I care. As of this moment, you, Claire Standish, are dead to me. D-E-A-D! Come on, girls, there’s a sale in Banana Republic.”

As Benny turned on the heel of her expensive patent Mary-Jane, Stacy Luder got in Claire’s face. “So dead.”

She turned, and Tracy quickly followed in her twin sister’s wake. “D-E-D!”

Tracy had never been accused of being the intelligent twin. She couldn’t spell “orange” for the life of her.

They stomped away. Likely for good. ‘Good riddance,’ Claire thought scathingly as she turned back to the stupid mannequin and pulled uselessly at the bottoms. Allison slithered silently up behind her, and Claire damn near jumped out of her skin. And pricy Stuart Weitzman slides. 

“Ahh!” she screamed, likely disturbing the hush of the store. She whirled to face Allison, her friend’s arms laden with lacy black…things. “God! Someone needs to put a bell around you. Or, like, a shock collar.” 

Ally ignored that. “You really meant all that? Leaving ‘em all behind and stuff?” 

Claire’s thin shoulders bobbed beneath her pink cashmere cap sleeve blouse. It was new from The Limited. “I’m *so* done with Benny and her little minions. Being her friend is work, and I’m sick of it.”

Allison shifted the black under stuff from one arm to another. “You realize that they will probably make your life hell, now, right? Even worse than they made mine before?”

Claire shrugged again. She could take ‘em. “I can handle it. We only have one year left in this hole. Besides, this year I have you and John.”

Ally smirked. “Bender would burn the school down first before he let any bitches out-bitch you. Preferably with Vernon inside. And Rooney, too, what the hell.”

Claire snorted and signaled for a sales girl for help. “Please. He wouldn’t need much excuse.”

“True. Though, Benny Hanson trying to Mean Girl you would do it easy. You’re *his* bitch. The only bitch.” Allison blinked. “Truly, I think he gets off on it. Just like Andy gets off on my eating weird shit and drawing him naked sometimes.”

Claire wrinkled her pert nose. “I didn’t need to know that.”

Grinning once more, Ally held aloft a lacy black one-piece that was part bathing suit and part Catwoman. “Now. What do you think of this?”

“I think I’m gonna heave.”

**

Allison was right on target, as she usually was. 

It started right away, on that coming Monday, the Mean Girling, the freezing, the making of Claire’s life at Shermer a living hell. Claire, formerly mostly known as Claire Standish, shoe-in for Prom Queen and the only daughter of the richest man in town and the second richest in Chicago (second only to Ted frigging Turner). Thus, she remained Benjamina Hanson’s “best friend” and loyal follower for years. Why Benny was Numero Dos when Claire was wealthier no one really knew. Perhaps it just had something to do with their individual personalities. Benny was demanding, a born leader, but the kind that would not hold up in a non-high school environment. Claire was meeker. A follower. She served better…serving.

Until now. With the help of the Sport and the Basketcase and Big Bri and his own illustrious self. And even his friends and some of her less bitchy ones. Like Bueller and Sloane.  
Suddenly, Claire was standing up for herself, not just going with the crowd. And Benny did not like *that*. At all. 

It started much as it had with Basketcase. Dumping water on her head. Lame. Then, in the caf as she sat with all of them in the corner, she dumped her *entire tray* on Claire's head. Pizza, soda, sad school cafeteria corn, one of those Mexican cinnamon sticks that were so damn good but he could never remember the proper name of. 

Claire jumped out of the blue plastic seat, drenched in cola. “Okay, Water I can handle. But Coke? This means war.”

Bender was already on his booted feet and glaring at Benny’s back. “I’d take ‘er for you, but I don’t hit girls. Even high-falutin’ twats like Benny Hanson.”

Stubbie, Sporto’s friend who’d just won his instant friendship by presenting him with front row tickets to Black Sabbath; dude’s dad worked at TicketMaster, and he thus came home with free shit, raised a light blond eyebrow. “’Twat’? I got an uncle in London, you been talkin’ to him?”

John shrugged. “My ma’s an anglophile. She drops the English cursewords around the house all the time.”

So, war was declared. Never try to out Mean Girl a former Mean Girl. If Benny pulled Claire’s hair in the hall, Claire sat behind her in history II and cut off her braid with hair shearers. If Benny spread the rumor that Claire had VD, Claire in turn spread the rumor that Benny had “done it” with the entire swim team, coach included. If Benny poured Coke on Claire’s head in the caf, Claire poured paint on Benny’s in Arts class. 

Izzy Jones found Benjamina Hanson screaming and running out of the room covered in blue paint particularly amusing. So did Bender. He had no need to step in. Claire had this.

He had never been prouder of the Princess.

Alas, her war with Benny Hanson would prove a mere battle compared to the one she was about to fight. One that he would definitely need to intercede in. On her behalf. 

And he didn’t care one iota what kind of trouble he’d get into because of it.  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Those nine dollar cookies from Auntie Annie['s come from me lol my friend and i used to get nine dollar sammich oatmealo cookies and plunk ourselves down in front of Macy's to spit venom at random people, yes we did that too as teens ' we were kinda Mean Girls ourselves. We still laugh about it now in our thirties. "Hey, remember when we]d go to the mall dressed in our pajamas and eat nine dollar cookies and make fun of random people for no reason?"
> 
> Note 2: "She asked me how to spell Orange."
> 
> Note 3: Sad school cafeteria veg are sad. And it is a Churro, Bender, and yes, they are delicious.
> 
> Note 4: Title explanation{ Claire is finally escaping Benny's grasp

**Author's Note:**

> Note 1: I was halfway through writing Chapter 1 when I realized I didn't have a prologue. I thought jotting down why the five were in detention in the first place made the most sense.
> 
> Note 2: Richard Momoa is Jason Momoa lols.
> 
> Note 3: Obviously RIP Robin Williams
> 
> Note 4: Eric Fielding=Joey Donner from Ten Things I Hate About You
> 
> Note 5: Jones is Elias Kotes, aka Casey Jones from the OG Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movies xD The actor made an appearance as s delinquent in Some Kind of Wonderful. You can see him during the detention scene, head shaved, wearing those fingerless gloves. He'd definitely hang out with Bender. Since he's only credited as "Skinhead" (I'm choosing to believe that's an innocent 80s connotation because Skinheads used to be pretty chill until neo-Nazis and their ilk snatched that culture all up) I named him Elias Jones after his IRL name and Casey Jones lols
> 
> Note 6: Since both Amanda Jones and Lorraine Baines are played by Lea Thompson, Amanda's send-off of Brian would be the same as Lorraine's response to George MyFly's insistence that he is her destiny. "Oh!"


End file.
